


In The Dark

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous Morality, Anal Sex, Auror Harry, Biblical References, Character Death, Comfort Sex, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love While the World Falls Apart, Fingering, Forced Proximity, Frotting, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inferi Apocalypse, M/M, Mystery, Oral Sex, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming, UST, Uneasy Allies, Unspeakable Draco, Vaginal Sex, depictions of violence, handjobs, magic sharing, travel fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 102,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: In the aftermath of an apocalypse, Harry receives an order to find and bring Draco Malfoy nearly a thousand miles, to the tenuous safety of Hogwarts. But more than distance separates them from their goal.The world has fallen, and death is hungry.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, side pairings - Relationship
Comments: 403
Kudos: 712





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **AN 1: There are several character deaths in this fic. Most of them are merely referenced, but a few are depicted. There is also some graphic violence, and the near-constant threat of violence and death.**
> 
> AN 2: Teeny story-time. I started this in September of 2018, but ended up shelving it 8 chapters in to make the deadlines of fests I was participating in, and now, well... Although it's entirely written in my head, my motivation to get all of it out has faltered for several reasons. I really dislike posting WIPs, but that's what you're getting here — a work in progress, and my own form of motivation to complete the thing. lol. I'll be aiming for putting up a chapter every two weeks.
> 
> AN 3: Big, _huge_ thank yous to my betas and Britpickers, and to all of the friends who've encouraged me along the way.
> 
> **Please see endnotes for update on the fic's (not! abandoned!) posting status**

It comes in the form of a man, not entirely unlike The One Who Lived.

It comes while Harry is having a pint of pale ale with his team. He leans back in the creaky wooden chair of the pub and snorts with laughter when Whitney sloshes foam all over her robes, grinning unrepentantly when she flips two fingers at the rest of them. She doesn’t mean it; she’s in just as good a mood as everyone else is, the black-market magic traders they’d been tracking from London to Troyes finally in custody. 

It’s taken weeks and Harry misses home, misses his friends. But his team, hand-picked for this mission, has worked hard and they deserve a night off. He’s got Portkey-activation discretion, no need to rush back. It’s only a couple of extra forms, and he doesn’t mind filling them out for the opportunity to buy a few rounds in thanks, to sit in a pub with his coworkers, to spend some time wearing his own face in a city small and far away enough from London that he’s not at great risk of being recognised. Harry takes a pull of his warm beer and relaxes.

It comes with a swish and flick, simple as _Wingardium Leviosa._

It travels twelve hundred kilometres away, as Hermione sits down in the Great Hall, her skin still flushed, her muscles still twitching with little zings of pleasure. She eyes Rose and Hugo to make sure they’re behaving themselves and makes a mental note to discuss expanding the family table; as younger witches and wizards are taking on fellowships, more and more children not yet placed in Houses have been taking up occupancy. 

Ron ambles into the Hall a few minutes later, a satisfied glint in his eye and an overly-casual expression on his face. Hermione bites back a smile at the tiny smirk he shoots her as he bends to check on the children and say goodbye. Hugo waves at him cheerfully but largely ignores him. Rose, of course, pouts. Ron pets her hair and whispers something in her ear that makes her perk up — probably a promise of treats when he returns from London in the morning. Hermione’s shiver of pleasure grows into something fierce and proud, all-encompassing, watching them. Ron straightens and lifts an eyebrow at her, a more subtle version of the _I’ll see you soon, but not soon enough, Ms Granger,_ than he gave her back in her office before dinner. Hermione hasn’t blushed over sex in years, but she does now and it feels splendid. She returns his knowing look with a nod and gazes at him as he strides out, trying not to sound like a lovelorn teenager when she sighs and spoons crispy roasted potatoes onto her plate.

It comes with a murmur, not too unlike the ones every pureblood wizarding child grew up hearing.

It comes in between, to London, as Ron steps out of the Floo and coughs out a lungful of chimney dust. He’s pretty sure Kreacher leaves the fireplaces sooty to spite him; he’s been clear from the start that he doesn’t approve of people using 12 Grimmauld Place as a travelling stopgap. But despite his feelings on the subject, Kreacher appears out of nowhere, as if waiting for Ron to request coffee, and Ron knows he’d make some if he asked. He never thought the curmudgeonly old bastard would have a soft spot for him of all people, but Kreacher’s loyal as hell to Harry, and Ron supposes he can sense that Ron feels the same, in that way house elves seem to know so much while saying so little. 

He smiles at Kreacher with a shake of his head, mind turning back to Hermione as he makes for the street. He hates leaving for an overnight shift, though she’s understanding about how the extra work has been piling up, with Harry gone. But it did afford him with even more reason — as if he’d ever need an excuse — to turn his bossy, brilliant wife into a needy tangle of boneless, gasping pleasure. He walks down the street, whistling, and reminds himself to pay attention the next time Nev blathers on about his Most Extraordinary New Plant; maybe it'll give him a clue about what to buy as a thank-you for taking the kids out for a few hours before dinner. 

It comes with a final puff of air, the trembling sort that was, for two years, so common at Malfoy Manor.

It starts with a slide into the space between Harry and his loved ones, as Draco dithers over whether he should change before heading down to the hotel bar, perhaps into something that hints he’d be receptive to an invite to the new club across the way. For all that he’d hoped his escape from the clutches of the Ministry would resemble a holiday, the last few days have been nothing but work — and boring work, at that. It’s a nice change of pace, he supposes, but he’s given a firm _no_ to the offer of heading out of Wizarding Paris tonight to chance a Muggle restaurant. He’s already fulfilled his obligations of friendship and duty, and if he’s not wrong, the young wizard behind the bar has been exchanging glances with him for the last two nights. Draco is seldom wrong about such things these days, and he’d much rather take a chance on his suspicions instead. 

He brushes his hair into a smooth quiff and pats on a bit of aftershave, then decides to stay in his robes. They’re as bland a colour as can be, but they do give him an air of mystery if not power, and any shade of grey has always brought out his eyes, anyway.

It comes with a crash of physics and magic as soon as the sacrifice collapses, blood sinking into the earth. 

The air shimmers and there’s a single beat of silence, every living thing within a kilometre somehow recognising the violation of the natural order. Then a passerby shakes off his tremble with a laugh and says, “Quelqu'un doit avoir marché sur ma tombe.”

His wife laughs as well, but as they continue on their way, the bitterly sweet smell of dying poppies brushes past him, and he wonders how enough of them are left so late in the season for the cloying scent to cling to him so. 

It fits itself into the body that fell, rising slowly. Its eyes are milky, its hands are bloodless, and everything it sees is an abomination it must cure. It brings death to one, to another and another, and some scream and topple but others join it, the crackle of their magic growing to extend their reach. Like a soundwave, like a Muggle bomb, the curse ripples out, shutting down magical communications and feeding on magic itself. It hangs in the air, heavy and thick as it travels north and south, east and west, spreading out from Paris to hunt for those who can join the swarm and those that are not worthy enough to. 

And if the body who first rose could understand what it was seeing, it would object; it would even perhaps fight the things it has brought into existence. 

It would know there were things it would want to protect. 

It doesn’t. 

Nor does it know that the spell turned out _wrong_. But neither does it care; it only cares to feed on another, and another, abominations all if they are not part of the masses. 

Though never starving, Death has nevertheless been hungry between the great banquets of wars. Capitalising on the curious new form its been given, its loathing for plucking individual fruits from the vine will become apparent as it cuts a swath through the first feast it's been offered in what feels like an eternity. But those tempting desserts who have defied its clutches are an ever gleeful thought in the back of its mind. 

Death heads for Draco first, because he’s the closest. Harry next — and oh, how it's craved him — in less than thirty minutes, using the force of destruction it's been allotted to slash down every obstacle in its path. It will be in London with Ron hours later, and will work its way slowly up toward Hermione in Scotland, as she tucks her children into bed at night.

It comes for them all and though each of them have looked Death in the eye, though Harry has shaken its hand, none of them are aware of its impending arrival. When Death comes for them again, it will be nothing like the battle that came before the fall of Voldemort, the dawn cresting and dazzling everyone with its light. When Death comes for them again, it comes with sun slipping behind the horizon and bringing with it darkness. 

They think they remember what it was like, but memories have a way of fading over time. It’s been ten years, five months, and one day since the last time their names were on its list.

Even if they remembered, they wouldn’t know what to expect.


	2. Lamentations 3:57

G-E-T D-M-A-L-F-O-Y

Harry draws back, staring at the paper. He's not mistaken, he knows he's not, but he reworks the code in pen, regardless, before the glowing symbols on the coin fade. They were Hermione's answer to “constant vigilance”; her own brand of cryptography. He remembers teasing her when she came up with it. 

Now, he just thanks gods he doesn't believe in for her natural preparedness. 

He translates everything again, and it comes out the same. Hermione needs him to get Draco Malfoy. Put together with the rest, it's even more jarring: _Urgent. Five Seasons Wizarding Hotel. Get D Malfoy._

Malfoy. Merlin, Harry can’t quite pinpoint the last time he saw him; it had to be over a year ago, and then only at a distance, in the halls of the Ministry. He’d not even known he and Malfoy were sharing the same country when Hell on Earth landed. Why is he here? What could Hermione possibly need him for?

Harry clutches the cooling coin in his fist and shakes off his curiosity. There are too many answers to that, none of which he has the time to contemplate. The magic wrapped around the coin is too strong to be used in anything other than emergency, which has curtailed communication to only the most necessary. So it doesn’t really matter what Hermione needs Malfoy for, only that she thinks it’s important enough to endanger the spot Harry’s deemed safe enough to rest in for a couple of days before pushing on. That’s enough for him.

He tugs on his boots and turns to organising what little he's managed to stockpile. He keeps anything he takes out spread on a small table next to the sofa, right over the lip of the bag resting below it, positioned for a quick scoop-and-run. He has to, especially since his findings are so meagre: some food and a couple of lighters, a matchbook, a map. A knife. He's still got some Auror-issued beads that can muffle the magic of low-grade spells, and all but one of those goes into the bag as well; he doesn't want to tempt himself to use them when it's not truly necessary. He pilfered some batteries from the remote control of the empty flat he’s up taken residence in, and though the remote flashed ‘low battery’ when he tested it, he has a feeling they’ll come in handy, so they go into his pocket with his last bead. He knows he won't be back even if this turns out to be a fool’s errand. Fortunately, the Five Seasons is less than a mile from where he's holed up, right across from the Seine, and there's still well over an hour before sundown — if he leaves now, he has a chance of making it before he's spotted and has to run. 

Less fortunately, the Five Seasons is in the Wizarding District of Paris, which means he'll have to use magic to gain entry — and he'll have to hope the section hasn't already been overrun. Through trial and error, he's found that magic used at certain levels attracts them. Is absorbed by them. Where it doesn't, Harry’s fingers throb in dim reminder that spells often have a negative effect on the caster. He lost four fingernails when he was forced to Apparate out of reach from a mob surrounding him, and he still only managed to get about twenty metres away. It was enough, thank goodness, but he doesn't want a repeat experience. 

He peeks out a curtain in the tiny parlour to check the afternoon sun. Though he’s seen them enough while the sun's up to warrant caution, the true danger comes from being exposed in the dark; it’s virtually impossible to travel, then. At this hour, it's still a risk, but one he’s fairly certain he can take. He's almost as glad for it as he’d been for the chance to rest for a day or two. His supplies are on the wane anyway and without electricity _or_ magic, he's down to a few cans of beans and some overly-salty cured meat. Whoever lived here before — a bachelor, he suspects, due to the lack of family photos, the clothing in their wardrobe, and their lackadaisical philosophy on housekeeping — was overdue to replenish their groceries. They're probably dead now, but Harry can't let himself think about that. Maybe he'll pass a store with a broken door or window and be able to scavenge a bit. He could look for a torch, perhaps. _Lumos_ doesn't seem to bring them, at least not yet, but better safe than sorry. And he could do with more food. 

God, he misses Kreacher. He sometimes thinks he’d kill for a cuppa. 

Harry tucks the machete he transfigured from a broken signpost on the second night into the leather scabbard strapped to his hip. Silently, he heads down the stairs, avoiding the one near the bottom that creaks. It's too quiet a sound to worry about, but it startles him every time. The side-effects of making as little noise as possible for the last couple of weeks. 

Hitching the pack a little higher on his back, Harry holds his breath and eases the door open. The street looks empty but for the parked and crashed vehicles, and the occasional body lying lifeless on the pavement. He casts an unnecessary _Alohomora_ on the door. It’s a strong enough spell to distract them should they wander by, but not so potent as to lure them out from wherever they seem to hide during the day. He doesn't bother closing the door behind him, and starts walking. 

It's unnerving, the silence. The soft echo of his footfalls. He knows he's not the only one living in the area but it feels like it. Yesterday, he saw some scavengers roaming the street, covered head-to-foot in leather and quiet as the grave. Muggles, perhaps — none of them seemed to have a wand, or even a wand-holster. It gave him hope and he almost called out to them, but quickly cut off the words gathering in his throat; his magical signature might have put them in more danger. Nothing to be done about it now. 

He moves as swiftly down the street as he can without running. There's no point in spending a lot of energy when he doesn't yet need it. He passes the nearest markets, but he's already taken what he could from them — right after the shitpile he was in really started steaming and he lost his last grasp on being able to think of himself as part of a team. He holds his breath; the markets smell of rotten meat and produce now, like the corpses baking in the street do at noon. At least nothing in the stores have a chance at reanimating. 

Paranoia sets in after awhile and Harry checks his watch to see it's nearing five o'clock. Still at least an hour before they start to come out in hordes, as long as he does nothing stupid to draw attention to himself. He turns down a street he saw on the map that looked like it might shave off a few minutes. It's narrow and unfamiliar, and the later hour casts long shadows, but everything seems quiet and calm. 

Stepping lightly, he follows along the cobblestone, passing cafes with locked metal grates over the windows and doors. There could be people inside; he hopes there are, or at least that they’ve gotten somewhere safe. Occasionally he hears the creak of metal and startles, but nothing comes rushing at him, and for several blissful minutes, he doesn’t have to kill anything. 

At the mouth of the alley on the other side, there's another market, one with the door near-kicked off its hinges. Harry stares at it for a moment. It's obviously been pillaged, but the main concern is the chance of someone else being in there. It doesn't really matter at this point whether it's human or other — even a chance is almost too big a risk to take.

But there's a chance that something useful could have been left behind, too. 

Harry doesn't waste time debating. He slides in through the doorway, one hand resting on the handle of his machete. There’s no open threat, no movement, and no noise other than the low hum of a generator coming from somewhere, so Harry prowls through the aisles. It's a trendy sort of whole-foods store and, astonished, he finds that it's not completely empty of supplies; whoever found this place before him seems to have focused on the produce, the refrigerated items. He'll never fail to be surprised at the lack of common sense people show, not that anyone had much time to show it. But the veritable feast in here is unexpected. Most of the canned goods have been taken, but Harry finds a few without labels amongst the drunkenly-tossed shelves, and there’s a whole aisle with supplementary protein shakes, condensed milk, boxes of granola bars and protein bars, multivitamins. There are containers filled with dry, loose oats, and more cured meat, coffee and raisins, and even sweets. 

One eye on the doors, he Shrinks down as much of it as he can fit into his pack, leaving a little space near the top for anything else he might need. It turns out to be a good call, because a minute later he comes across a section that seems to be devoted to outdoor activities. It has torches and more batteries, camp stoves — oh, god, to be able to eat something _hot!_ — and a durable, one-man tent. Motherload. 

It takes him a few precious minutes to rearrange what he's already got in his pack, but when he's finally done and everything's in, the weight of it feels like a weight being _lifted_. He slings it over his shoulders and heads for the door. A low growl freezes him in place. 

Turning his head, he smothers a curse. A dog, a fucking _dog,_ either already feral or made so through circumstance, sits in a defensive crouch not three paces away, baring its fangs. Harry’s chest hurts. He’s seen several stray cats here and there, but only one other dog — and that one had been injured, probably in a bid to protect its owner. That was how Harry learned that even Healing magic attracts them, and he’d hated the regretting the attempt to save a life as they’d made their way toward him. But this dog is unlikely to look at him with the same gratitude before running off, anyway. Its fur is scruffy with what looks like mange, and what’s left of its pale, shaggy coat is flecked with blood. Harry thinks quickly and reaches into the pocket of his coat to pull out a handful of jerky. 

“Good dog,” he whispers. “ _Good_ dog.” 

The dog's growls intensify. 

Fuck.

Even a _Silencio_ seems just beyond the cusp of allowable magic, as he discovered when Travers went down. Most magic that can be used for offensive or defensive measures is like that, and Harry knows he can stomach hurting the dog with the weapon at his hip if it attacks, he _knows_ it, but the things he’s already had to do are bad enough. He opens his palm to display the jerky, and the dog's growl turns into a sharp whine. Harry exhales. He throws a piece, wincing when the dog snaps the meat from the air, and then throws the rest beyond it in an arcing toss, glancing at the dog as it scatters. The dog seems to waver for a moment, guarding its spot, but finally turns to collect its bounty. Harry flees, pulling the broken doors closed behind him. They squeal too loudly, and bring to his attention the darkening sky. Goddammit. 

He was in there too long. 

The sun is dipping low, just above the horizon now. Harry makes his way out of the alley, gripping the machete handle tight, eyes constantly in motion. Terror has been a companion as close to him as any friend throughout his life, but for that very reason he’s mostly able to discern fear from reality; only twice does he duck to hide when he hears (or imagines) the shuffle of feet and wheezing rasp they make. Still, he’s quick about it and tries to make up for the time lost in the market. By the time he gets to the unremarkable wall that hides the magical world from the muggle world, it's far more evening than afternoon, and all of Harry's nerves are jangling. 

Swallowing hard, he takes a last, furtive glance over his shoulder before tapping out the bricks that will move the wall aside. They shift, part, and he steps in. The silence here, too, is ghostly.

Oh, god, what if he's too late? 

The wizarding district in Paris is a bit bigger than that in London, but all it takes is one look to see that the streets have been ravaged by Inferi. Glass from broken shop windows glitters in the streets, lit by the few lamps that still have a working flame, and Harry can't feel the telltale buzz of wards over any of them. The air is colder here, too, and is oddly thick, a murky sort of fog, as if the necromancy that's soaked into the hordes has permeated every magical space. Maybe it has. 

For a moment, Harry thinks he’s finally been dealt a stroke of luck; the Five Seasons stands close to the entrance of Masqué Route, just beyond a broom shop and a store that, achingly, reminds him of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. The hotel's flickering sign is like a beacon in the dwindling light, and there’s lamplight pouring out, even light coming from a room four floors up. But upon looking closer, he can see them through the doors: The cursed dead, wandering aimlessly through the lobby — a mausoleum, with standing room only. The floor is thick with them, just now beginning to stir and become more alert. He wonders if this is where they come during the day, wonders how many witches and wizards they've collected for their masses in the last eighteen days. 

Wonders if Malfoy might be one of them. 

The thought leaves an odd taste in the back of Harry’s mouth and he doesn’t know why. If Malfoy’s gone, he’ll be one of thousands, maybe millions at this point depending on how far this thing’s spread. Just another in a long line of losses. 

Harry pulls the machete. Pulls his wand for good measure. Hermione gave him a task. If Malfoy _is_ already dead, Harry should at least be able to tell her that. If Malfoy's alive, Harry has to bring him out. He just... needs to figure out how to get past the thick press of bodies who will scent magic on him if he gets close enough. He studies the bottleneck of the glass doors for several seconds, breath coming light and quick as he runs several potential scenarios through his mind.

None of them are workable. His Invisibility cloak is still in his bedroom back home, and would be useless anyway; narrow as he is, he doesn't think he'd be able to walk a path without brushing up against one or two of them, at least. And any spell he tried to cast would make them hungry, would blow his cover. 

Harry looks around, desperation thrumming through him. He's too vulnerable, even standing there pressed up against a wall, but for the life of him he can’t think of a way in that doesn’t equal certain death.

Then he glances back, thunderstruck. 

There _isn't_ a way in. 

But there might be a way _up._

Harry slides back along the brick as furtively as he can, his heart in his throat. The tinkle-crunch of broken glass under his boots blares in his ears, but he can't let himself stop or he’ll lose momentum, can’t let himself think or he’ll talk himself out of it. He hikes a leg over the glass spiking sharp from the window sill, tucking his wand away. The showroom is filled with model brooms and he swallows hard, peering into the shadows to make sure none of them are moving as he eases his other leg over. 

Swiftness and stealth are traits he's had all his life — learned first at the Dursleys, used later at Hogwarts, and perfected in the Auror Corp. But this time, when he needs them most, they fail him; the shard of glass sticking up from the sill snags his jeans. It cracks and falls to the pavement with a resounding shatter. Harry snaps his head over.

They're already coming. 

Forsaking discretion, Harry stumbles inside and grabs a broom off the display hooks. But the Inferi run at breakneck speeds and he's barely mounted it before the first are climbing in through the broken window, bony fingers outstretched, misty white eyes glowing. Harry kicks off, hoping he hasn’t made a mistake and— 

He's airborne. 

The broom shudders, bucking under him and fighting his magic, but he tightens his thighs and ruthlessly keeps his seat, hovering above the dead. He swings his arm in a forward arc as he passes over them, clipping three of them at the wrist and snarling with satisfaction as their hands fly off. Useless, bloodless things, no longer a threat when they're not attached. It gives him just enough leeway to fly out through the open window, past the ones screeching toward him from down the street. 

Harry can already feel the dangerous spike to his magic that indicates an oncoming magical crash, just from forcing the broom to fly. It’s as if the very air is sucking all power from his casting, from his blood. Still, he angles the broom up, willing it to go higher. It rocks before sluggishly obeying. But a stubborn broom has never been a match for him, and though it feels like it takes a lifetime to get to the fourth storey, he manages with some effort. 

The horde below is _screaming_ now, a frustrated cry that chills his blood and sounds like his name. He tunes it out as best he can and disembarks onto a balcony with a sliding glass door, the broom clattering to the ground. It takes his breath away, that wash of magic pounding hotly through him, his renewed repression of it, and he has to prop himself against the frame of the wrought-iron balustrade, his knuckles turning white.

Once he's steadied himself, Harry digs into his coat for the torch. It's a small one, better designed for making sure someone doesn’t trip over tree roots if they need to have a slash while camping, than for any sort of real recon, but he takes a few seconds to fit the loose batteries in and shines it through the glass door anyhow. The light he could see from the ground seems paler up close, a blue bulb held aloft in the middle of a spartan hotel room. 

It’s _lumos_. 

_Yes._

Harry tries the door. It slides open several inches — soundlessly, thank fuck; he doesn't know what he'd do at this point if the hordes came crashing in through the hotel room door at the opposite end of the room. He can hear them out there too, the eerie echo of their moans in the hallway just beyond the thin protection of the walls. 

He pitches his voice low. “Hello? Is— Is someone in here?” 

There. A quick intake of breath, just as quickly held. Harry swerves the torch in that direction. There's a bed in the room, a desk and a small sofa, but not much else. It smells nice, though. Like a meadow. Like freshening charms.

“I’m. I'm here to help,” he says, hoping it's the truth. His words come out scratchy, and it occurs to him he hasn't used his voice in… Well, he can't remember how long. Five days? Six? He coughs into his elbow to clear his throat and tries again. “Who’s here?”

“They don't—” someone says in quiet, low timbre, equally rusty. And familiar. _Familiar._ Harry waits. 

“They don't,” Malfoy says again, sounding dull, “make sense when they talk. But I think— I think sometimes they're talking to me.”

“I'm not them,” Harry whispers. Then, with a breath: “Malfoy?” 

A pale gleam of hair comes up from behind the small sofa. “Malfoy,” Malfoy says, and laughs, high-pitched and almost giddy. He pushes up, rushing to Harry so fast that Harry nearly raises the machete. But Malfoy skids to a halt just before him, hands moving over Harry's chest and arms, fluttering little touches of disbelief. Harry stays still, heart thundering deplorably loud, not quite sure what to do. He feels floaty and disconnected, as though he’s watching their meeting several paces away, the madness in Malfoy’s face setting him off-kilter — Malfoy, who always seemed so calculating, even that last awful night of the war when Harry saw him beg for his life.

But he can tell Malfoy's lost weight too; his madness must come from somewhere. His face is exquisitely thin, his narrow chin gone as pointy as it was before his teenaged growth spurts. His eyes are bright, glassy and blank, and they look huge in his skull. His robes are covered with blood. 

Harry takes a step back. 

Malfoy makes a wounded sound, reaching out for him again. Harry grips Malfoy's bony wrists in his gloved hands.

“Have they touched you?”

“Please,” Malfoy blurts, twisting his wrists. His fingers twitch, stretching. “Please, can't I just—?”

“ _Malfoy,_ ” Harry grinds out. He hasn't touched Harry's skin, but Harry curses himself for letting him get so close. “Have any of them _touched_ you?” 

“I— No,” Malfoy says, gaze on Harry's hands. He licks his lips, still straining for contact. “I— I killed— Before they could change. My coworkers. Two— of my,” his voice cracks, “friends. They were—”

Harry releases Malfoy's hands and Malfoy surges forward with a sob of relief. He wraps his arms around Harry like clinging vines and shudders against him, head falling limply to Harry's shoulder. Harry struggles briefly with the urge to push him away, all of his defensive instincts going on high alert — it's so strange to be _touched_ — but slowly winds his arms around Malfoy's waist and holds him close. His eyes sting and he closes them, breathing quietly. 

He doesn't know how long they hold each other, but when Malfoy's shaking eases, Harry immediately loosens his grip. He settles on saying, “You look like you're hungry. I’ve got some food,” and is surprised into a half-smile when Malfoy gives a choked laugh. 

“I _am_ hallucinating,” he mutters, sounding a bit more like the Malfoy Harry remembers: dry and clipped. He pulls away to look into Harry's face, lips curling with such naked gratitude, Harry has to glance away. There's a beat, and then Malfoy's back under Harry's palms grows taut with tension. Harry drops his arms and moves to take another step away, but Malfoy stops him; he pinches Harry’s chin and yanks his face back. “ _Potter?_ ”

* * *

Hermione focuses on the _tap, tap, tap_ of her wand against the coin, but keeps her eyes on the gauge beside it, the rising mercury that signifies when safe levels of magic-use have been breached. It’s nearly at the hovering red marker when she finishes with the message, too aware that there’s more she needs to say and nothing to be done about it. When the coin flares bright — message received, Harry’s got to be holding it — she puts down her wand and covers her eyes with one hand.

She wants a drink in the worst way. 

Unfortunately, all of the liquor in Hogwarts, contraband or otherwise, has been transferred to the Hospital wing, upon her own bloody insistence. Healing spells tend to attract them for some reason, and though Hogwarts’ wards are holding for now — though Scotland hasn’t been as entirely overrun as other places have been, yet — it’s safer to do things the Muggle way, whenever they can. Which means holding the alcohol aside for when they run out of sanitising soap, and making whatever other preparations she can for the moment things start to collapse. She’s sitting in a thousand-year-old house of cards, and almost wishes she didn’t know how precarious their position is.

The door opens and shuts with a quiet, echoing click. Hermione looks up and forces a smile. “Professor.”

“Headmistress.” Minerva’s return smile is tired but amused, though her aging fingers have the skirts of her robes in a death grip, the soft folds over the backs of her hands stretching the delicate skin there tight. She takes a seat across from Hermione’s desk, seeming to think nothing of it that it was once her own. 

She’s been like that from the start, her brogue severe when Hermione protested her own place there — _I have but a handful of working years left in me, Ms Granger, and I’d much prefer to work them at my leisure,_ she’d said, mouth twitching at Hermione’s expression after she’d explained that she was stepping back into her former role teaching Transfiguration. Several years running Hogwarts has taken a lot out of her former (and, often, current) idol, Hermione knows, though she sometimes wonders when it really began. Even right after the Battle of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall, so stalwart until that point, had seemed more frail. Smaller, somehow. 

“How are the children?” Hermione asks belatedly. They tried, for the first few days, to keep things as routine as possible, but as more of the injured and dead arrived to Hogsmeade, as more children began to really fear for their families, the schedule of classes fell to the wayside. They have one or two per week now, all years and every House huddled together in an expanded classroom, trying to absorb whatever lesson is being taught — usually Defence, and often without using magic. Minerva volunteered to hold daily sessions answering any other questions the children may have. 

Minerva clucks her tongue, the harsh lines of tension around her eyes fading. “Everyone is in good health. I’ve had to warn some seventh years once more from leaving the wards, the same group of—”

“Gryffindors?” Hermione guesses, laughing a bit when Minerva raises an eyebrow and nods. “I’ve their names on a list,” Hermione glances hopelessly down at the parchment strewn over her desk before giving up with a shrug, “somewhere. I’ll find it and see if there’s a way to issue light tracking spells on them. What do you think about putting an alarm on the castle doors? I don’t want to cause a panic, but if anyone tries to go outside…”

It’s still fairly safe between the castle and the wards nearly a kilometre out, but Hermione doesn’t want to test the eagerness of the Inferi she can see staring at the castle hungrily through the windows of her office. To her relief, Minerva nods.

“I was going to suggest that very thing,” she says approvingly. Hermione’s shoulders come down a little, but immediately tense again when Minerva leans forward, green gaze somber.

“What is it?”

“She’s woken up,” Minerva says with obvious reluctance. Hermione jerks to her feet, but Minerva holds up a hand, staying her. “She hasn’t spoken again, and I’ll caution you to not use magic on her.”

“But—!” Hermione’s objection breaks, her eyes flooding hot. She lets out a slow breath, gripping the edge of her desk. Her voice is shaky, and she can’t keep the hope from it. “Ron?”

Minerva shakes her head, eyes brightening with moisture. “She hasn't told us any more. Hermione.” She stands, rounds the desk. In a rare display, she covers Hermione’s hands, encasing them in warmth so suddenly Hermione realises how icy her own hands have gone. “Listen to me, child. Hogwarts has faced— Well, many, many things, and it’s survived them all. And so have you. Not all hope is lost.”

Hermione swallows. She pushes the grief away; it’s been the only way she’s been able to function for the last two days. “I know. My— my kids are safe. And Molly, Arthur. Harry’s alive,” she says, drawing from that and using it to contain the horrible claws of rage and fear in her chest. There are so many unknowns: her parents, Charlie and Percy, most of her friends, her husband. And so many losses that she can’t even make herself consider them. But not Harry, at least. For now. “Harry’s alive. I— The gauge finally dipped low enough that I could send him another message, and I saw him get it.”

For a second, she thinks she’s imagining the tear that glides down Minerva’s cheek. Even at her most demonstrative, Hermione’s never seen her cry before. But no, it’s really there, tracking a gleaming path from her sparse, wet eyelashes as she closes her eyes, all the way down to her chin. She clasps Hermione’s hands tighter. 

“Good,” she says. Her lips tremble for a moment before she firms them. She clears her throat. “That’s very good to know. But I was referring to your Mr Weasley.”

“It—” _hurts_ , Hermione starts to say. She can’t quite explain it, how hope is almost worse than bracing herself for the oncoming pain. But Minerva nods as though she understands, and she reaches up to brush Hermione’s hair away from her face, the way a mother would. Hermione stifles a sob; she hasn’t fallen apart yet, and doesn’t plan on letting herself do so now, but it’s so overwhelming she can’t gather her thoughts.

“Come, lass,” Minerva says. She looks at Hermione for a long beat over her oval glasses, until Hermione is matching her, slow breath for slow breath. By the time she speaks again, Hermione feels calmer, and Minerva’s voice has gone crisp once more. “We should head to the infirmary.”

Hermione nods, mostly because doing something for no reason is better than doing nothing at all. But she says, “If she can’t speak and I can’t use magic on her, then—”

“Narcissa Malfoy has always been many things, but a fool is not one of them,” Minerva says, escorting her out of the door, one comforting hand on Hermione’s back. Her eyes are narrow when Hermione glances at her, and she lifts her eyebrow again. “I said that she _hasn’t_ spoken,” she says grimly, and Hermione’s heart flutters. Minerva shakes her head. “I’m not sure I’m convinced as to whether or not she _can._ ”

* * *

It was supposed to be a standard job, as far as such things went. Too good to be true, maybe. The Ministry usually kept Unspeakables under lock and key, toiling down on Nine for such long hours that a social life was often out of the question. A paid-for holiday to Paris when he hadn't had the opportunity to go in years, and all they would have to do was let aspiring Cursebreakers follow and take notes? Draco was the first to volunteer.

He wishes, now, that he’d at least given a longer pause to the ‘too good to be true,’ part of the Paris equation. Because of course it was.

It was also ground zero. 

The stench of something sickly sweet seemed to waft off the pavement that night, bringing to mind disturbing memories of the way his home smelled after Bellatrix moved in, after Voldemort. More than a decade later and he still can’t walk near orchards without gagging at the odour of fruit left too long on the branch. Draco couldn’t help checking the inside of his forearm for movement, for darkening ink. But it remained quiescent, a dead scar symbolising a dead man, and he convinced himself it was nothing. Their work was done and they had a Portkey for the morning. He was simply unused to having time off, that was all. 

The screams started at sundown. Draco, half-pissed and flirting with a good-looking wizard in the hotel bar — he could barely recall how long it had been since he’d pulled — didn’t register them for what they were at first. Was convinced they came from the new club across the road; public Muffliatos only went into effect after ten. But the interest faded from the bartender’s eyes and he started looking nervous, casting sidelong glances at the doorway, and when he’d begun staring in earnest, Draco sighed and asked for a Sobering potion.

By the time he got to the lobby, they were everywhere. Inferius, only a sort Draco had never seen before. They moved the same but faster, made the same sounds but louder, some ravaged by death and some so untouched they could pass for alive, and he watched, stunned, as two of them grabbed Lisel, a witch from his team. She had an astonishing amount of power for a Muggle-born — so much that he’d had to train her to pull back on her spells when she joined their floor — but she fell under them with barely a whimper. Her fingertips flared orange-gold with fire for a mere second before her magic was siphoned off by the Inferi touching her. It was graphic, appallingly so, her young face aging in a matter of seconds, blood gushing from her ears and expelling like vomit from her mouth. The Inferi left her for dead before she was, and she turned a look of such helpless misery at Draco that he felt a coward for not aiming an Avada Kedavra at her. 

He didn’t make that mistake twice.

Unlike Lisel, when the bartender was touched, he seemed to join the mob of the dead. Some used their teeth and blood sprayed the walls, but mostly it was their hands: a press, a pull, a surge of magic strengthening them for a beat. There didn’t seem any rhyme or reason to it. Some took seconds, others longer, but in no time at all the screams were deafening, from both the hungry and the hungered-for. Draco’s firestorm spells vanished like smoke, sucked free of oxygen in the atmosphere. He ran through the lobby, robes kicking up around his shins, and attempted _Fiendfyre_ against his better judgement, but nothing happened. A glow, a fade. 

Nothing.

The lifts were overrun with the creatures, which left the stairs. Overrun as well, but at least that was partly due to the living. Draco took the stairs three at a time and caught an Inferi with a hand around the throat of one of his teammates. He shouldered it over the bannister and grabbed for Geoffrey’s robes, yanking him along and ignoring his grateful babble. 

“Shut _up!_ ” was the last thing he said to him. They only got to the landing of the third floor before Geoff shuddered, pulling back against his grip. Draco looked back in time to see the white film cover Geoff’s eyes, to see the way Geoff’s chest deflated and stayed that way. Without thinking, he swung his wand — it transfigured into a sword of sorts, and then Geoff’s head was quite disconnected from his neck and Draco didn’t have time to contemplate what he had done; he was too busy slashing down an elderly woman on his way up the stairs, her brown eyes going half-white, her face twisting from pain into blank avarice. 

He found that if he acted quickly enough, before they reached for him, their bodies stayed dead. But more were coming, and he paused only long enough to shout, “Come _on!_ ” to a woman struggling to _Alohomora_ her door before falling into his room. She followed, blood spatter covering her pale face, and slammed the door behind them.

“Wards,” she muttered. “Draco, _help_ me, I can’t ward anything!”

Draco blinked, dizzy. He flipped the series of steel locks, blankly remembering how he’d smirked at them only days ago, an unnecessary Muggle precaution.

“Magic— No,” he said, catching his breath. Her use of his name registered and he looked past the blood on her face to her features: delicate, pretty, a mouth like a bow, an upturned nose. Her hair was damply matted in places, but dark and sleek underneath. Relief flooded him, making him wobble on his feet; some part of him had completely forgotten her presence. “No, it seems to… It attracts them. They feed off magic, I don’t know how. I’ve never seen—”

Pansy went into his arms, pressing her face against his chest with a sob. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“You look like shit.” Draco hugged her back, exhaling when she huffed a shaky laugh against him. It was true enough, but she held onto him, familiar in his arms. It was calming to be able to comfort her in such a way. They seldom showed physical affection anymore, not since their ill-advised attempt at romance had almost ruined things a few years prior; it had been too terrifying to feel that sense of remoteness growing between them after the novelty of sex with his best friend had worn off.

“You _are_ okay, right?” Pansy asked. 

Draco held her tighter. At some point she must have lost her ever-present pumps and he was reminded of how small she was; she barely came up to his neck. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yeah.” Her breath was hot through his robes, her voice turning rough. “I thought— I thought I was done for, for a minute. One of them grabbed my neck and it felt like—”

Draco stilled. 

“What did it feel like?”

Pansy paused, and when she finally spoke, her voice had gone even raspier. “Like he was pulling something from me. _Giving_ something to me.” Her hands tightened on his back. “Telling me something I needed to—”

“Darling,” Draco whispered. No. No. Oh, god, please. Not her.

“Draco,” she said. His name came out strange, warped on her tongue, and she abruptly shoved him back. _No._ “Draco, it’s—” 

The green of her eyes was fading. Draco took a step forward. 

“Stay— away—”

“Pansy, _no!_ ”

“Love— you—” she said on a stifled, wheezing inhale. Her face had been white before, beneath the blood, but it took on a greyish cast, and just before her irises grew milky, Pansy’s gaze fell to the still-transfigured wand in his hand. “ _Fast_ ,” she ordered. Begged. Her chest hitched.

He made it fast. 

Sometime after dawn, the screams quieted. 

Or perhaps it wasn't until the next day. Or the day after that. 

At one point, he was sure they had. They must have. Like before Potter arrived — it had been quiet then, he's reasonably certain. 

Then again, he's not sure how reliable his perception is anymore. The last few days… Or weeks… He's been looking at the door, just willing himself to have the courage to open it. The pangs of hunger that drove him so mad after awhile are completely gone. All of his conversations are with the dead girl who’d been his lifelong solace. And he's seeing _Harry fucking Potter_ standing in front of him. In Paris. In his hotel room. Holding him and offering him food. 

None of it seems very likely.

“Am I imagining you?” he asks politely, to make up for the sarcasm of his thoughts. Just in case. 

Potter stares at him. His cheekbones stand out with weight-loss, but there’s a hardness to his face, to his gaze, that Draco’s never seen before, not even during those glimpses Draco’s gotten of him striding through the Ministry, decked out in scarlet robes and barking orders with authority. Not even during that last night, when the Dark Lord fell. Potter pushes his glasses up to rest at his hairline and rubs his eyes. “I sort of thought that the whole, uh, hugging me thing was so you could figure that out.”

Draco nods and steps back. “Yes, well. I didn't realize you’d moved here.”

“I don't,” Potter says shortly. “We were— I came on assignment. Troyes.” Flicking Draco another glance, he shrugs the pack from his shoulders and moves to the sofa. “If it's safe enough here, I think we should stay for the night. What I'd like to—”

“Don't!”

Potter halts, body bent in a half-crouch above the sofa. He looks at Draco and rises. Turns to look over the back of it.

“Don't,” Draco says again. He closes his eyes.

There's a long silence. Draco opens his eyes again just to make sure Potter is still there and finds Potter staring behind the sofa, Adam's apple bobbing. 

“Is that—” He meets Draco's gaze. “That's not—”

Draco can’t bring himself to even think her name. His throat is so tight, it would certainly trap any words he might possibly say, but none come to mind. He flinches when Potter exhales, loud and slow.

“Malfoy—”

“Don't,” Draco says, and for one stark, mad moment, he thinks it’s the only word he _knows._ His muscles feel locked. “I had to— She—” Somehow, his nightly freshening spells over and discussions with her seem… wrong now, with another live human present. Grim. 

“Malfoy,” Potter says again, gently this time. “You had to.”

Draco wants to say _No. No, I could have chosen to die with her._ It makes him feel like sicking up. Makes him want to stuff his fists against his burning eyes and weep. Makes him want to cut out his own heart so his body can reflect the gaping hole left by her death. But he finds himself nodding, instead — and that's perhaps the most sickening thing of all. 

The room spins around him and the last thing he sees is Potter's face coming closer, Potter's outstretched hand, before everything goes dark.


	3. Lamentations 3:6

Malfoy collapses into Harry’s arms, his head sagging on Harry’s shoulder. But he’s breathing, and the horror on his face has been chased away by the slack of unconsciousness. Harry taps his cheek lightly with one palm and sighs when Malfoy’s only movement is a brief fluttering of his lashes. He doesn’t stir, and when Harry lifts him up, he understands why: Malfoy is light as a feather, his muscle and fat stores depleted after who knows how long he’s spent starving in here. He places Malfoy on the bed, a new flicker of unease rippling through him. 

He’s got used to compartmentalising since the Spread. Each of his team members went fast, one moment themselves, the next — not. Moving or unmoving didn’t seem to make much of a difference. Dead is dead, and Harry has mostly been able to push aside any feelings on that in favour of focussing on the next countermeasure, the next evasion, the next step forward. One after another until his body is too exhausted to move, his mind too weary for logic. And he’s tired now, already. He feels raw all over by having heard another human voice, by having touched someone and been touched, no matter that it’s someone he used to hate and now can't even really claim to know. Malfoy lies on the bed, unmoving, his cheeks hollow with hunger, his clavicle a sharply angled wing under the fabric of his robes. Harry’s almost afraid to do anything — any gentleness he’s managed to retain has been buried with the rest of his softness to better allow for survival, and he doesn’t know if he can access it in the way he’ll surely need to get Malfoy back up. 

Maybe he should just let him sleep. 

Harry rubs his forehead, the edge of the mattress sinking under him as he sits next to Malfoy’s prone form. He hasn’t had to care for someone sick yet, and if he’s honest, hasn’t wanted to. It’s easier to ignore the growing pit in his stomach when he can just walk away from a body sprawled in the street. He can’t seem to pluck the next string in the tapestry that’s spread before him — all it will take is pulling the wrong one once to snarl any hope they have of getting out of here. But then, he’s never been fond of dealing with the minutiae of tactical manoeuvres. Really, his only talent for them lies in spontaneity, the immediacy of the fight. When the pieces become clear and fit together like a puzzle, a picture coming together all at once. Ron’s always been the one with the natural skill for tactics, the one Harry still relies on for practical advice when planning a task force. Only Ron’s not here — thank fuck, Harry doesn’t think he’d still be standing if Ron fell; no wonder Malfoy has gone ‘round the bloody bend — and Harry has to do this himself.

“What would you do?” he murmurs to Ron through the gold-and-cream-striped wall in front of him. 

_Check for supplies,_ Ron says wryly in his head. _Let the bastard sleep, he’s been bunking with his dead best mate for weeks. Not too long, though. You don’t want him dying of starvation before you can kill him for being important enough to ‘Mione that you had to risk your arse to come fetch him. But for a bit. Have a look around and make sure you’ve got something for him to eat when you wake him. He looks pretty gross, doesn’t he? Tosser._

Surprising himself with a snort, Harry heaves himself up from the bed and looks down at Malfoy. He doesn’t smell too bad, probably due to the freshening charms he seems to have been using on the room. But his hair is lanky and unwashed, and the blood on his robes has long since dried, leaving it with unsettling puce stains over the chest and cuffs. There’s more blood on the back of his wrist, some under his chin, little streaks half-flaked off. He’s an absolute mess, but the Ron in Harry’s head is right — he can’t concern himself with that, yet. He turns to better investigate the room. 

It’s a standard hotel room, albeit a little nicer than he’d thought when first coming in. There’s a little table pressed to the wall that turns out to be empty, but using his torch, Harry prowls around and stops at the desk he saw before. There’s a small bin to the side of it, which contains four rotting apple cores, two mushy brown banana peels, a few empty bags of crisps, and an empty jar with _Two Galleons_ scripted elegantly on the lid in English and French. Under the desk is a black leather messenger bag with silver clasps. Harry fits the strap over his shoulder and continues. The sofa he’d almost sat on before, richly upholstered in a soft cream that matches the wallpaper, is pulled away from the wall, just far enough to accommodate the space of Parkinson’s body. Harry glances at it and keeps walking; he frankly needs another minute before he can even contemplate doing anything about that. 

At the far edge of the room, just a few feet from the locked door to the hall, is the loo. The door is cracked half-open, and Harry pushes on it tentatively, wincing when it creaks. But the moans and whispers he can hear from the hallway don’t even pause, so he slides inside and takes a look around. Shower, toilet, sink. A slender cupboard that, when checked, contains an extra set of ugly, grey, standard-issue Unspeakable robes, and a couple of dress shirts and pairs of trousers, their pleats still sharp on the hangers. A small travel bag with Malfoy’s initials on it rests on a stool, and Harry picks that up, too. On the counter, there’s a posh shaving kit and a row of what looks like custom-made hair potions or colognes, little glass bottles with crystal stoppers. Harry’s jaw tightens of its own accord before he forces himself to relax and breathe; there’s no point in resenting Malfoy for spending his money and time on frivolities, not now. In fact, Harry can’t be sure why it bothers him at all — it’s not as if he’d been expecting that Malfoy lived like a pauper to atone for his past. 

Or maybe part of him did, a little. There’s almost no profession in the wizarding world that requires as much dedication as the Aurors, with the exception of the Unspeakables, who are rarely even seen off their own floor. His assumption that Malfoy was doing it in penance is at least reasonable, from where he’s standing. 

It’s immaterial, regardless. Harry leaves the bottles where they are and sets the travel bag on the toilet tank, then crouches to check the wastebin between the toilet and the sink. It’s got some tissue paper with little blotches of blood as though Malfoy cut himself shaving, and a crumpled piece of hotel stationary that reads, in decidedly feminine handwriting, _Tour with puppies bumped again, to 8 a.m. this time. Catacomb director (bossy cow) wanted to “remind” us to use the West entrance for witches and wizards, so don’t forget. (I’d rather not get censured for hexing her, so I’d appreciate if you came up with a valid reason for me to do it.) And for Merlin’s sake, where are you? We only have three nights here, and the barkeep isn’t that cute. Ring me when you’re ready for dinner. P._

Harry swallows, standing. Not letting himself think about it, he smooths out the note on the counter and carefully folds it, then tucks it into his back pocket. His reflection stares back at him for a moment, dark-jawed and dead-eyed, until Harry lowers his gaze. Shaking it off, Harry checks the taps, frowning when the small drizzle of water that appears immediately slows into a drip. It’s really no wonder; the remaining electricity grids unaffected by the EMP-like pulse on that first night finally failed over a week ago, the water grids a few days after, and wizarding hotels tend to rely too much on magic for their lighting and plumbing. Harry’s just glad they took the precaution of putting muggle locks on the rooms. He twists the taps off and turns to lift the toilet seat, then drops it closed at the harsh, ammonia odour that wafts up. 

At least Malfoy’s been cogent enough to not soil himself. 

A glance in the shower yields nothing; both the floor and the nozzle are bone-dry. Harry grabs the travel bag and slips back out of the bathroom, then sets both bags on the bed. He turns to look at the sofa. 

It’s not the most pleasant task, but nothing is, these days.

It takes him a few moments to force himself to study Parkinson — _Pansy_ — more closely than he had when he first recognised her. If he remembers correctly, she was in training to be a sort of liason for the Unspeakables. He saw her around the Ministry with a bit more regularity than the rest, even sitting in on interdepartmental meetings from time to time, silent and watchful just to Saul Croaker’s right. Her unsmiling mouth was always red with a fresh coat of lippy, her dark hair always in a smooth coil at the nape of her neck. She never relied on a quick-quill the way most of the others in the meetings did, choosing instead to prop a small notebook on her knee and take her own notes. About a year ago, Harry bumped into her on the way out of the canteen, and the way she sized him up with her cool green eyes, as though she still thought he expected an apology and was just waiting to tell him to go fuck himself, almost made him grin.

 _Excuse me._ She accompanied her frosty drawl with a fake smile, and Harry stepped aside, his mouth twitching, and swept one arm out. _By all means_ , he’d said. 

His throat is tight. Pansy rests on her back, the colour of her lips garish now against her grey face. A sheet has been draped over her up to her chin and it’s darkly stained at the neck, but both hands under the sheet rest over her chest, and her hair looks as though it’s been freshly tended to. Angling the torch to the side, Harry finds a brush with a mother-of-pearl handle, raven strands caught in the bristles. He turns away, props himself against the wall, and reminds himself to breathe. 

He’d never liked Pansy Parkinson, and maybe he regrets that now, regrets never having made the effort to understand her better, but— she’s just another of the dead, in a long line of them. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to dispose of her over the balcony, to get rid of the reminder that’s obviously driving Malfoy mad. He could say he Vanished her if Malfoy asks, could say he Disillusioned her. But in the end, he knows it's not really an option. It feels… unfair not to allow Malfoy to decide. Harry bends and folds the sheet up over her face instead, hiding the stillness of her death and the tenderness implied by her fastidiously brushed hair. 

He rises and makes his way back to the bed. Malfoy has shifted onto his side, his legs curling up toward his torso, the way Teddy slept as a toddler. Harry covers him with the blanket sitting at the foot of the bed and opens the bags. He rifles through the clothing in the travel bag, unsurprised with its contents at first, a set of satin pyjamas in either grey or light blue. But underneath the argyle socks and folded pants are also two t-shirts, and at the very bottom, Malfoy’s got two sets of joggers and a well-worn pair of trainers, both of which should come in handy. Harry flicks another glance to Malfoy, to the bump of his wingtips under the blanket. He takes out a few things and sets the bag aside.

The messenger bag is more interesting. Mostly, it contains folders of papers written in a code specific to the security clearance on level nine — nothing important; bureaucratic nonsense memos, most likely, based on their format. But there are also some scrolls that are still covered in secrecy charms, though they fizzle as soon as he picks them up. Unrolled, they reveal complicated geometric diagrams accompanied by shorthand notes in the margins about Apparition vs Floo travel, and magical restraints vs _Immobulus_ charms; one seems to suggest a line of Ministry-issued invisibility cloaks. He sets them aside. Deeper in the bag, there’s a small leather book, its parchment ragged at the edges of every page. Harry uncoils the cord tied around it and fans out the pages, flipping to the middle. 

_—spewing such revolting madness at me that I left his rooms feeling as though insects were crawling under my skin again. Yet for all of Mother's strength, I know how deeply it would hurt her should I stop. But there's not much I wouldn't do to indulge her, and she knows that too, though she's bound to be unpleasantly surprised if she continues on about finding me someone suitable to marry, which she's begun bringing up with disturbing regularity. She laughs when I tell her I’m married to my work, but there’s pity in her gaze and in truth, I’m loathe to see it. I know it pains her that my opportunities to make a match are so dismal, but it’s not as if neither of us doesn’t understand why. And anyway, I do love my work to what could be considered an unhealthy degree. It may not be the unhealthy degree of devotion she and my father had before he—_

Malfoy shifts again and Harry closes the book with a guilty glance behind him. He tucks it away amongst the folders, and sets the messenger bag on the floor next to the other, turning his thoughts to what could be next. 

_Food_ , Ron’s voice comes, exasperated. _Merlin, Harry, how you always forget about food, I’ll never know._

Harry smiles bitterly and reaches for his own bag. He wishes he could tell Ron how much better about that he is these days.

* * *

_Pansy taps down her staircase, slowing her descent when her mother clears her throat. She waits until her mother turns away with an approving nod, then smirks at Draco with a subtle roll of her eyes. On the bottom step, she stops and holds out her hand, allowing Draco to approach._

_“Thank you for coming over.”_

_“Of course. I appreciate the invitation,” Draco says, kissing the air above her hand with far too formal a bow over it rather than hugging her like he wants, “you know how boring I find Diagon Alley this time of year.”_

_A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of her and it takes her a moment to stifle it. His house arrest ended only two days ago; unless Draco wants to get murdered on the spot, they both know quite well he’ll be steering clear of Diagon for at least a year. But Pansy’s eyes are gleaming with humour — she loves it when he’s outrageous, and really, what reason does he have _not_ to be, anymore? — and unless Draco is imagining things, he heard her mother snort softly too._

_Pansy waves a hand. “It’s gone positively common these days, hasn’t it?”_

_“You’d have to go to Paris to find a decent set of robes,” Draco declares._

_“That’s enough, children,” Phyllida says indulgently. “Pansy darling, why don’t you take Draco to Paris for a while?”_

_“Yes, Mother,” Pansy says. Draco pulls back from her tug toward the step on which she stands. He wants to object — his probation doesn’t permit him to leave Britain until his twenty-first birthday. But when he looks around, it’s too late: They’re already sat in sumptuous armchairs, in the middle of the dressing rooms of Fils Charmés. It’s one of the finest formal-wear boutiques in wizarding Paris and Draco is embarrassed; not only has his skin gone sallow in the last year, he doesn’t yet have the funds to allow for extravagant spending. His gold won’t be released until he’s twenty-one, either._

_“I’ll just give you my thoughts on what you try on, hm?” he says, crossing his legs and sitting back._

_“You’ll need to at least model the formal robes for our wedding,” Pansy says, rising from her chair to study herself in the angled mirrors. The wedding gown she wears is more ostentatious than his mother would ever approve of, the white satin sleekly fit and dotted with pearls from the low-cut neckline to the hem brushing the floor, but Draco has to admit it suits her._

_“I thought we put all that wedding nonsense behind us.” Draco sighs, takes a sip of champagne from the mug an elf hands him, and grimaces. It’s gone flat and warm._

_“How do I look?” Pansy asks._

_“Lovely,” Draco says._

_“I think a veil,” Pansy says._

_“Not a tiara?” He’s only half-teasing; a tiara might actually pair quite well with her bone structure._

_“Hmm.” She seems to consider, twisting to examine herself. “Maybe this isn’t the one,” she says. “What do you think?”_

_“I think you put your lipstick on wrong,” he says, disturbed by the way it stretches across her throat. Pansy shrugs, unbothered, and Summons a display of veils. She tries on one after the other, light, gauzy things in different styles and lengths, ballet to cathedral._

_“You,” Pansy says pointedly as she slips on a veil that resembles a pillowcase, covering her face to her chin, “are not in the position to lecture me on how I look. When was the last time you even bathed?”_

_“I am now,” Draco says. Pansy harrumphs and turns back to face the mirrors. Irritated with her for taking so long and for not fixing her makeup, Draco reminds her again, “We’re not engaged, so you might as well take that off.”_

_“I think I want to be buried in it,” Pansy says lightly. The pillowcase tumbles off and takes her head with it. From inside, she adds, “And don’t pretend not to know exactly why—”_

* * *

_”Stop!”_ The voice is forceful for all that it’s barely a hiss of air. Draco fights against the restraints holding his wrists, his scream breaking off into a wheeze. The restraints around his wrists loosen, and then hands are clasping Draco’s shoulders. He opens his eyes and sees Potter sitting next to him, staring warily toward the door. 

Draco tries to catch his breath. He’s soaked through with sweat and the moaning refrain from the halls seems never ending. It makes him dizzy. He can’t seem to orient himself, both nightmares warring in his mind simultaneously.

“It’s fine,” Potter says quietly. “I don’t think they heard you.”

“Oh.” Draco sags, grimacing at the dampness of the pillow under his back. He starts to sit up, but Potter’s hand on his chest stops him. He looks down; his robes and shirt have been removed, leaving him in nothing but his trousers and shoes. “What—?”

Potter removes his hand and brings up a wet cloth, squeezing out the excess water into a bin sitting beside him. “I thought if you weren’t covered in—” With a hard exhale, he begins (resumes?) washing caked blood off of Draco’s chest. The water is lukewarm, and smells of Draco’s lemongrass soap. “Maybe I should have woken you, but I didn’t know how long it’s been since you’ve slept. You looked like you needed it.”

Still too disoriented to be offended, Draco considers. If what’s happening now is real, then that means what happened before was, too. He closes his eyes. “It’s been—”

“Yeah.” Potter doesn’t make him finish, doesn’t ask any questions. He simply continues sweeping the stained cloth over Draco’s chest and stomach, his chin and collarbone and wrists, pausing every now and then to wet the material and wring it out again, until Draco’s exhaustion presses on him once more. He wants to doze off, but when he’s aware of his need for sleep, it’s more difficult. He thinks about Potter instead, Potter washing him, so enigmatic, as though this is a service he’s accustomed to performing upon people he once hated. Thinks of how Potter is really, truly here.

“Why—? How did—?” Draco licks his lips and pries his eyes open when Potter’s hand falters. Potter’s eyes, eerily black in the light from a tiny, portable lamp on the bedside stand, are fixed to Draco’s midsection, and his throat bobs.

“We’ll talk about things later,” he says, shifting his gaze to the bin. He drops the cloth into it with a small splash and puts it on the floor. “You should rinse off and change. I put some clothing into the bathroom for you, and then we should eat; I’ve got food ready.” He hesitates. “Can you make it there on your own?”

“Of course,” Draco scoffs, or tries to. It comes out weak. He attempts to heave himself up, but his muscles won’t cooperate and, frustrated, he issues a low growl. But then Potter sighs and grips Draco’s bicep, pulling him up and steadying him when Draco’s knees won’t immediately lock. He escorts Draco to the foot of the bed, hesitates again, and switches sides with him. Draco wants to ask why but can barely do more than lean on Potter as his steps steady, and then he doesn’t need to ask because he knows: Potter was putting himself between Draco and where— and the sofa. Draco swallows and grips the door jam of the loo. “There’s no water.”

“Your wand?”

“It’s—” Draco shakes his head, ragged fingernails digging into the expensive paint. “I can’t use it.”

“Why can’t you—? But there was a _Lumos_ ,” Potter says, looking confused. He glances over his shoulder, then back to Draco. 

“Wandless,” Draco says tiredly. After his attempts at Apparition had knocked him unconscious and made those creatures scrape frantically at his door, he’d been forced to rely on the few small, wandless charms that he'd mastered to keep going — freshening charms when the room smelled too much of death, _Lumos_ when it got too dark and he became tempted to sleep.

“You need a wand for _Aguamenti_ ,” Potter says, a stutter of dawning horror to his expression, quick as a blink; there, then gone. “How have you been _drinking?_ ”

The short answer is that Draco hasn’t been, much. The water that comes from the borrowed wand is tinged with the flavour of his own magic, a miserable blend of sour and bitter, now. He’s only used the wand when he absolutely had to, his throat on fire and his head pounding so badly that he could lift it without thinking about who it belonged to. He doesn’t want to hold it again, doesn’t want to feel the smooth dips worn into the wood of the hilt from its previous owner, doesn’t want to feel the friction of an unhappy wand in his hand. But Potter is still waiting, so Draco looks away and gestures. “It’s. Over there.”

Potter draws in a sharp breath. A beat passes, and he pushes something into Draco’s hand. “Here.”

Draco’s fingers throb pleasantly with a warm, friendly feeling, and he wraps them around the wand in his hand. He looks at slim length of holly, recognisable even in the dark. “I— I can’t.”

“It’s fine,” Potter says. When Draco still doesn’t move, his jaw hardens, voice roughening. “For fuck’s sake, I used yours once, didn’t I?” He starts to turn. Stops. Without looking back at Draco he says, “Be quick about it; you need to eat. Call me if you need any help,” and strides away, leaving Draco alone in the doorway with his wand. 

The reference to food finally registers and Draco sways, drawing in a lungful of air through his nose, and imagines a faint, salty scent under the freshening charms that have sunk into the walls and the fabric of the furniture. He doesn’t know when the last time he ate was, but it has to have been weeks. He’d never been taught to ration food, growing up, his difficulties always leaning more towards a lack of appetite when he was under stress than a lack of resources. He remembers there having _been_ food in the room, things available for purchase in a tiny cabinet on the desk; fruit, he thinks, and perhaps a jar of cashews? All he knows is that he’d eaten it without thinking about a week in, almost everything at once, and that the cramps to his stomach that coming in waves afterwards had felt like what he deserved for his gluttony and… other things. 

He listens to Potter root around with something that rustles for another few seconds, then releases his grip on the door and turns, relieved when he doesn’t fall. There’s a towel hanging by the shower, and his running clothes are folded neatly on the toilet lid. Draco unclasps his belt, and swiftly strips himself of his trousers and pants, which sag on his frame anyway once his belt is loose. He spares a second to wonder vaguely where his shoes and socks have gone, but the question flits away like spidersilk in a strong breeze. 

Draco steps into the shower and goes to pull the curtain, but the light coming from Potter’s lamp is already so faint, he can’t bring himself to make the room any darker. What purpose does modesty serve at this point? And anyway, gripping Potter’s wand with the intention of _using_ it is much more difficult a thought than showering in the open like he’d done so often after Quidditch in school. It takes him a moment to muster the courage to focus his magic, to let himself feel the thrum of it learning the shape and wood and core of Potter’s wand. There’s a disconcerting blend of curiosity and familiarity in his hand, like that first morning waking up in his own bedroom whenever he was on break from school. Draco takes a deep breath and aims the wand at himself, then murmurs _“Aguamenti”_ at himself, closing his eyes at the cool spray that bursts forth. The soap has gotten tacky on him, and he clears it of his torso as quickly as he can, then takes another few minutes to wet his hair and scrub the oil from it, the grime from his scalp, to wash under his arms and everywhere else that’s likely to smell. 

There’s something ritualistic about the act of getting clean that helps to further clear the cobwebs in his mind, and his jitters have eased by the time he’s done. He grabs the towel off the hook and squeezes the water from his hair with it before using it to roughly rub over the chills pebbling his skin. The lure of promised food has gotten stronger, and he thinks— he thinks he might be able to sleep tonight, after eating. Having Potter here is like having his own bottle of Felix Felicis; even if Potter’s luck at escaping dire situations wasn’t famous, Draco himself has seen it too often to deny its existence. He could do with a bit of that right now. 

“Do you really think he’s going to share it with you?” someone asks. Draco starts, the towel falling to the floor. She’s sitting on the lip of the counter in Muggle clothes like the ones she wore when they’d gone clubbing, before everything got complicated, a short skirt and sparkly black top that’s held up by slender threads over her bare shoulders. She crosses her legs at the ankle and idly kicks her feet back and forth.

“You’re not here,” he says. He means to say it firmly but it comes out soft and wretched. She smiles and shrugs.

“I’ve been here for you every other night, since you killed me,” she says, watching as he starts to put on the clothes Potter set out. “Why shouldn’t I be here now?”

Draco has no answer for that, and doesn’t think he could bring himself to give one if he did. Why _should_ she be the one to go, if one of them has to? Draco will be leaving soon anyway, if Potter’s luck holds. 

“Do you really think he’s taking you with him?” she asks, flicking a dark strand of hair from her fringe away from her eyes with her pinky. Draco tries to ignore her, feeling the ache in his unused muscles as he draws up the soft, comfortable joggers over his hips and ties the cords at the waist so they don’t fall off. He pulls on the t-shirt. 

“Do you really think you’re not just imagining him, the same way you’re imagining me?” she asks, smile hardening when Draco won’t answer. “Think about it Draco: You finally become a murderer, and of me no less, and _Harry Potter_ comes to save you? What part of that sounds likely?”

“Stop,” Draco chokes out.

She hops down from the counter, gaze narrowing. “Why should I stop? You don’t think you deserve it?”

“I do, but—”

“There’s an exception to that statement?” she asks with a peal of laughter, sweet and throaty. “But… ‘I didn’t mean to, Pansy,’” she mocks, coming closer, “‘but it was you or me, Pansy,’” and Draco wants her to just _stop_ saying her own name, just _stop_ , “‘but you _told_ me to, Pansy,’ as if that would be worth anything, or maybe ‘I didn’t really _know_ , P—’”

* * *

Harry sits, staring at the coin. It took them days to figure out the risk of using it too often; only weeks ago, the invasion was still so new and horrifying, Harry just assumed they’d find him anywhere he went — and sometimes wondered if it would all go away if he just let them take him. But Hermione’s _Stop using coin. Magic attracts. Will contact with details asap._ message had finally come through and he’d spent his first uninterrupted night back-to-back-to-back with Middlestone and Travers as Whitney patrolled the dingy, ground-level flat they’d holed up in, and they’d got a lot more careful after that. 

Not careful _enough_ , but at this point Harry doesn’t really think such a thing exists. 

He rolls the coin against his knuckle with his thumb, chest tight. It’s always been a bit of a laugh, what the public thinks of his connection to Ron and Hermione, the way the press implies the three of them can read each other’s minds or possibly underwent a life-long bonding spell, but right now it stings that that’s not true. As grateful as he is for this small link to them, he wishes they’d done something grander, that the old wizarding tales were true and there'd _been_ something grander, so he could feel that they were okay. He hates that he can’t reach out to them right now, knows they’ve got to be worried sick, and wants to know how they are as well. Even Ron can’t help him, his voice fading in Harry’s mind after Malfoy’d woken up; Harry’d had a flash of loathing toward both of them for that.

Sighing, Harry tucks the coin back into his pocket. It’s not like he can send a message without his wand, and he’s got enough sense that he wouldn’t anyway. He needs to just get through this, then get through the next thing, then the next, and figure out how to do everything with Malfoy in tow.

 _Malfoy_. God. Harry blames him more than Hermione for this, even though he knows it’s not fair. But until tonight, it had been days since he’d felt anything more than adrenaline-laced terror, more than a determined sort of numbness. He hadn’t even felt much when Whitney, the last of Harry’s team, had been grabbed and turned into one of those things before Harry’s eyes. A jolt of _no_ and the quick slash of his machete revetebreing up his arm, and that had been it. But now… Seeing Malfoy this way, someone Harry associates so clearly with the _before_ of his life, seeing his wasted frame and those ropy scars on his torso, hearing him panic in his sleep— it makes Harry remember what feeling things is like, and he wants to turn it off again.

He looks over to the half-open door of the loo, growing alert when he realises that the sound of the spray from his wand has stopped. He tilts his head. There’s shuffling — of drying off, or clothing being put on, perhaps — but then a soft, tight word is uttered. A spell? A call for help? Harry rises, unsure whether to respond, and then Malfoy makes a garbled, broken sound, and Harry strides across the room, already Summoning his wand from Malfoy’s hand into his own as he slams the door open.

“Malfoy?” 

Harry falters. Malfoy’s standing in the middle of the bathroom, shaking from head to foot. His shoulders tremble under the loose fit of his t-shirt, and he’s got his palms pressed tight to his ears, his eyes squinched shut. He’s mouthing something silently, shaking his head so hard his damp hair is flung about. Harry lowers his wand and steps forward, grabbing Malfoy’s shoulder and shaking him slightly. “ _Hey!_ ” 

Malfoy yanks away, backing up against the cupboard in— in fear, Harry thinks. He’s seen and felt enough of it lately to understand. Malfoy’s in a bad place, an even worse place than Harry is, and Harry’s at a loss for what to do. He’s not a bloody therapist, and he’s never even been that keen to study his _own_ emotions, let alone someone else’s. He holds his hands out, wand fit between his index and middle fingers, palms displaying his lack of personal threat. He can’t speak to the threat beyond that, the hallway having quieted ominously at Malfoy’s cry. His heart races when Malfoy’s eyes flutter open for a second, then close once more. 

Harry keeps his voice to a whisper. “I’m— It’s just me. They haven’t got inside, I promise. We’re—” _safe_. He can’t bring himself to lie, but he never thought he’d feel outright _sympathy_ for Malfoy, either, so he just keeps talking as quietly as possible as Malfoy twitches and shivers and shakes his head. “They’re not in the room. It’s just you and me in here. I have some— food. I even warmed it a little with a low-dose charm. It’s probably not what you’re used to, but it’s filling and— and—”

Unconsciously, Harry moves closer, hands outstretched. Malfoy’s eyes open again, meet his. He still stands tense, back pressed to the cupboard, but he stops shaking his head, gaze wary on Harry as he approaches. His shivering slows by increments, and Harry remembers with sudden clarity what George was like the first few months after the war, so grief stricken he’d lash out in fury, then sink inside himself where no one could reach, waking up the entire household with his screams for Fred. Harry and Ron had been the closest, so they’d usually been the ones to find him, baring his teeth and brandishing his wand at an unseen threat, or huddled and weeping in the corner of the room he used to share with his twin. Harry’s tongue feels thick and his lungs hurt, each soft pant he issues burning them with memories. He steps into Malfoy’s space and — slowly, so Malfoy can see — sets his hands over Malfoy’s ribs, prominent through the fabric of his t-shirt. Malfoy jerks but doesn’t move, and Harry slides his palms down into the narrow cradle of Malfoy’s waist. He leaves them there, a light, grounding touch with reality. 

“Food,” he promises calmly, though his heart is beating so loudly he’s a little afraid the Inferi might hear it. But they’re making sounds again, those hungry, dissatisfied groans extending down the hallway like they’ve lost interest in what’s beyond the door to their room. Harry looks into Malfoy’s glittering eyes and, finally, Malfoy’s hands come away from his ears. “We’re the only ones in here, and I’ve got food out there.”

“We—” Malfoy’s voice sounds rusty, a little strangled. He clears his throat and gives a hitching nod, gaze flicking downward. “Of course we’re alone,” he mutters. Then, “Take your fucking hands off me, Potter.”

Harry snatches his hands back in surprise, a surge of anger rolling through him. He shoves it away as Malfoy edges to the side, slanting him distrustful glances. Malfoy works his back along the cupboard to the corner and down the wall to the door, Harry slowly pivoting on his feet to watch his progress.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks evenly.

“I’m fine,” Malfoy says. But he doesn’t seem convinced of that, and neither is Harry. If Harry couldn’t stop himself from looking forward at this point, he’d perhaps be nervous about what that means for their trip, but he’s learned to take things day by day — sometimes even second by second. Malfoy takes a long pull of air. “Why are you here?” 

Perplexed, Harry stares at him. He could explain about Hermione’s message, but who knows how Malfoy might translate it while he’s in this state of mind. While Malfoy was cleaning off, Harry hunted around the room and found Malfoy’s wand, tucked out of sight under the sofa and half-transfigured into a scimitar of sorts, the blade coated with dried blood. Pansy’s wand had been pressed between her body and the wall, and it had sent a crumbly sensation rattling through Harry’s hand when he picked it up, like the wood itself was traumatised by its owner’s death. It’s little wonder Malfoy’s… whatever way he is.

“To get us home,” Harry says at length. It’s the truth, at least. He doesn’t expect the ironic twist to Malfoy’s mouth, the huff of derisive laughter that escapes him. Harry straightens his shoulders and clamps his teeth shut, unwilling to placate Malfoy further; it’s one thing to calm him down, another to make apologies. Harry can’t shake the feeling Malfoy is waiting for the latter. 

“You just stopped in, then?” Malfoy asks, gaze leaving Harry’s face to glance around the room quickly. His shoulders slowly come down. “I was on your way?”

Harry purses his lips. “As a matter of fact, you were. Close enough, anyway. And I found out you were here and— you’re an Unspeakable,” he says. Malfoy’s eyes widen and he gives a hedging nod, which Harry copies. “They’re using Unspeakables at Hogwarts to— to see what can be done.”

“Hogwarts,” Malfoy says in a disturbed, breathy sort of way, almost as if he doesn’t remember the place, and a shiver crawls up Harry’s spine. Malfoy says it again, more thoughtfully. “Hogwarts. ...How many of us are left?”

“What?”

“Unspeakables,” Malfoy says.

“I— I don’t know,” Harry admits uncomfortably, hoping it doesn’t set Malfoy off again.

“We had a dozen here,” Malfoy says, almost to himself. 

“That’s… two teams, right?” Harry asks. Malfoy nods absently, and Harry considers. The Unspeakables keep their counts down, only the best and brightest, the most focused and discreet, permitted to train for the job. There are five teams total, each splitting off into subgroups for particular projects — though it could be far more complex than that, for all Harry knows. His knowledge stops there, with what help he and the DMLE are allowed to seek from those on Nine. Still, it seems like a lot of them to send to Paris and he says so before he can stop himself. 

“Yeah,” Malfoy says, brow creasing. 

“Was it a big… project?”

“We’re not permitted to—” Malfoy sighs and cards his fingers through his hair. He dries his hand off on the leg of his joggers. “No, it wasn’t. Just… I thought it was a—” He shakes his head with a strange, half-frowned smirk. “What food did you bring?”

“Um.” Harry gestures, then follows when Malfoy pushes off the wall to disappear into the bedroom. Careful not to startle him as he walks up from behind, Harry clears his throat. Malfoy barely acknowledges him, staring down at two of the mystery tins from the shop Harry’s opened, one of which turned out, fortunately enough, to be chicken noodle soup. The other one contained peas, which Harry’s spread into two small piles on the table at the wall, one in front of each chair. Malfoy doesn’t move, just continues looking at the food, and Harry takes a seat in front of the smaller pile of peas, then gently slides the can of soup over to Malfoy’s side of the table. He taps the can with his wand, warming it just a touch more. “I’d make it hot if I could, but—”

“Got it,” Malfoy clips out under his breath. He slips into the other chair and, after a quick look around for utensils, simply lifts the entire tin and brings it to his lips, and tips it back. 

“Slow it down,” Harry says, pausing his scrape of peas from the table into his palm. Streaks of broth slip down the sides of Malfoy’s mouth, trembling at his chin before dripping to the tabletop. “Malfoy—”

Malfoy lifts the tin away from his mouth breathlessly, cheeks bulging as he works to chew the solids in the soup. He flashes a glare in Harry’s direction, but when he finally swallows and brings the tin up, his throat works more moderately, and he pulls away faster. Harry resumes collecting his peas and takes a bite from his palm, then another. He looks up after another minute at the soft hush of metal against wood as Malfoy pushes the soup toward him. 

“I didn’t mean to take so much.”

Harry blinks and looks in the tin; there’s just under half left, and Malfoy’s… “How long has it—” Harry shakes his head and nods to his discarded jerky wrapper on the table near the wall. “I had something while you were rinsing off. The soup’s yours.”

Opening his mouth as though to object, Malfoy meets Harry’s eyes narrowly. Apparently whatever resolve he sees in Harry’s face translates, because Malfoy drops his gaze and grabs the tin, guzzling its contents with soft, unconscious sounds of appreciation. When it’s gone, he sets it aside and glances at Harry, working on his third palmful of peas, then mimics him, scooping a couple of tablespoon’s worth into his hand and eating tentatively from it.

“Are you rationing?” he asks, mid-chew.

“I’ve got plenty for…” Harry stops to think. He doesn’t know how long it will take them to reach Scotland, doesn’t know how long his supplies might last for two people. But it’s important that Malfoy gets fed up, is strong enough to keep going. Harry settles on saying, “Awhile. But— You shouldn’t worry.” He reaches down and pulls out a handful of soda crackers that he’d procured from one of the tubs at the market. Sets them on the table. 

Malfoy sniffs. “Don’t worry?”

That brings a reluctant smile to Harry’s face. “About food,” he clarifies. 

“Yes, well.” Malfoy finishes off his peas and reaches for the crackers. Taking the larger portion, he flicks his fingers dismissively at the rest. “Those are yours.”

Maybe Malfoy understands that he needs to take in sustenance slowly; maybe he doesn’t want Harry to get as weak with hunger as Harry guesses he’s been. Either way, Harry’s oddly touched, and he doesn’t argue. They crunch on the slightly-stale crackers for a few minutes in silence. Secure in the room, it’s almost easy for Harry to tune out the foreboding sounds of the Inferi in the hallways and outside. Like having music on in the background as he does paperwork. He eyes the way Malfoy nibbles around the edges of his crackers and pauses intermittently to take sips of water from the empty bottle Harry’s filled. It’s a bit weird to pass the water back and forth. It reminds Harry too much of sharing the last bottle of beer with Ron, and when Malfoy’s finished off his crackers — long after Harry’s done — Harry waves off the offer of another drink from Malfoy's extended hand.

“I’m okay.” He’ll look for another refillable empty he can use on the way. 

Malfoy shrugs and swallows the last of the water. He sets the bottle down with a small sigh and glances up, looking startled to find Harry staring at him. Harry looks away. 

“What now?” Malfoy asks. “How are we going to get out of—?”

“We’re not.” Harry keeps his eyes on the drawn draperies over the window, not wanting to see Malfoy’s reaction to that, especially after he hears Malfoy’s sharply-drawn inhale. “Not yet. We’re going to rest up, maybe for a day or two, and I’ll figure it out when it’s light outside.” He drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Around what time does it get quieter?”

“It doesn’t,” Malfoy says. Harry looks back at him. His emaciated face is tense, deep grooves set between his pale brows. He rubs a hand over his face, fingers long and disturbingly skeletal. “I don’t know. It does and it doesn’t. They’re always—” he jerks his head to the door, “—out _there._ I think it quiets down outside sometimes. I haven’t— haven’t been paying particular attention,” he mutters. 

Harry blows out a breath. “Right. Okay. We’ll pay attention tomorrow, then. They tend to go… inactive, during the day, unless some stimuli attracts their attention. I think the heat of the sun has something to do with it.”

“I tried _Ignis Viventem_ on them,” Malfoy says, only a small stutter in the last syllable of the spell giving away his unease. “The first night.” 

“I tried it too,” Harry says. “Most defensive and offensive magics don’t work at all. The ones that do are—”

“Stimuli.”

“One form, yeah.” A yawn catches Harry off-guard and he starts to fight it, but really, what’s the point? He leans into it, stretching his arms and spine, letting his jaw crack. His muscles tighten and relax, and when it’s over he feels better, but wearier. “I need to sleep. We both do. We can talk logistics in the morning.”

Malfoy mouths the word, _logistics_ , as though it’s foreign to him, but nods after a moment. The deep smudges under his eyes seem darker, his eyes bigger, huge dark pupils and flashes of silver in the dim light. He covers his own yawn with the back of his hand and stands without another word, taking a couple of steps toward the sofa. His face shutters. He switches course and turns to face the bed as if that was his intended target, and crawls onto it from where he stopped at the foot. He takes up one side, rolling away so Harry can’t see his face. Harry tightens his jaw to keep from blurting out anything stupidly unhelpful like sympathy, wishing there was some way to harden his heart against it entirely. 

“Keep the light on,” Malfoy says quietly.

“Yeah.” It’s not very bright, and battery-operated, besides; they won’t be able to keep it on every night if they want to conserve any power, but Harry doesn’t really fancy the idea of sleeping in pitch darkness again either. 

Harry drops the tins in the bin under the desk and removes his jacket, draping it onto the back of one of the chairs. He unlaces his boots and flexes his toes as he pulls them off, then sets them on the floor at the empty side of the bed, the tongue pulled out and laces spread in case he needs to get them on quickly. The room seems secure enough that an attempt to bust down the door would allow them enough time to get dressed, so he takes off his jeans and stretches them out at the foot of the bed before sliding under the covers in his boxers and t-shirt. Malfoy shifts, curling in on himself like he did when he was asleep, and tugs the blankets higher over himself. There’s perhaps two feet between them but it might as well be an ocean’s worth of space for how suddenly lonely Harry feels and he can’t understand why. He rolls over to face Malfoy, looking at the tight set of his shoulders for a moment, and closes his eyes.

Falling asleep quickly is a skill the Auror Corps has taught him, one necessary for those short breaks during long stakeouts and shifts. But waking up is a skill he’s learned too, and though he’s on the edge of a light doze, when Malfoy speaks after a few minutes, Harry’s immediately alert.

“Potter?”

“Yeah?” 

There’s a lengthy pause. “Just— Nothing.”

“What is it?” Harry looks at the back of Malfoy’s head. His hair has a touch of wave to it that Harry’s never noticed; he probably uses charms on it. “Do you need—?”

“No,” Malfoy says. “No, it’s nothing.”

Harry studies Malfoy carefully and sees the tension leak from the line of him, the way his body moulds to the mattress, his head sinking into the pillow in a way it hadn’t been before. It takes several more minutes, but finally his breathing slows and steadies.

Harry sets his own head back down. He closes his eyes again and goes to sleep. 


	4. Psalm 27:2

Chapter Three: Psalm 27:2

Hermione paces her office, cursing under her breath. She uses every wizarding term Ron’s inventiveness has taught her over the years, every Muggle term as well, sometimes in different languages, and applies them all to Narcissa Malfoy — who still won’t say a word. Won’t give a single inch. Who’s eating their food and living under the protection of their wards, who obviously wants something, but won’t say what. Won’t explain Ron’s sacrifice, won’t even look at the parchment Hermione’s held in front of her time and again over the last few days. 

Running her fingers over it, Hermione scans it for what feels like the thousandth time. In truth, it might be. Torn from _Pureblood’s Bond_ , an eighteenth century booklet of love poems and spells, it contains the title, author, and date of publication on one side, and Ron’s message on the other, just under a series of letters that look like runes — though none she recognises — in his handwriting. Splattered over his shaky lettering is blood, now long-dried, and long-since confirmed to be his. 

_D Malfoy in Paris. BRING HIM HOME. Gave NM magic to get to you, she knows, can’t come back. Love you so much and Rose and Hugo and Harry and my mu—_ The ink streaks off the page there, an interrupted goodbye that makes Hermione feel like her heart has been scooped clean from her body. 

She’s twenty-eight; she wasn’t meant to be a widow for at least hundred more years, if even then. They’ve been through childhood and a war together. They’ve laughed and fought, have made love and made children and made _plans_ , and it’s not bloody _fair_ that she can’t be with him. That she's left wondering he's seen his last moments, moments which should have been hers, to tell him how he mattered, how much he was loved. To spend comforting him or even perhaps _saving_ him, and oh she would have done if she could have; together, they would have found a way—

Colours around her blur, the world going terrifyingly soft-edged. The solitude she was so grateful for only minutes ago, a rare moment to herself during which there was no emergency to tend, now chills her to the bone, and she can’t— she can’t _breathe_ right. She yanks open the door of her office and runs down the stairs, bursting into the corridor because she hasn’t fallen apart yet where people can see, she’d never do that to the students, and she has the splintered idea that the reminder of being in public might help. 

“Hermione?”

Backside pressed against the wall as she leans over and tries to inhale normally, Hermione looks up with a start. She meets Anthony’s concerned gaze and forces herself to respond over the odd sound rushing in her ears and the tightness in her chest. “Yes, Professor Goldstein?”

She sees him take it in, the formal address. It’s always been harder for her to use the titles of the people she grew up with in place of their names — there never seemed much point, honestly, if students weren't present — and she’s done her best to foster a relaxed enough atmosphere amongst the staff that they return the favour. She’s always disdained the awkwardness that seemed to permeate their social group when she got promoted, first to deputy Headmistress, then to Headmistress, but she’ll use it now if she has to, to keep from seeing the pity that might tear her to shreds. 

Anthony blinks and the hand hovering, as if to rest comfortingly on her shoulder, drops to his side again. He clears his throat and says, in a mild sort of way, “You’re hyperventilating, Headmistress. If you purse your lips and cup your hands over your mouth for a few seconds, I think that will help.”

Embarrassed for no reason she can explain to herself, Hermione realises the sound in her ears is her own wheezing, realises how dizzy she’s become. She complies without argument and flinches only a little when he takes her by the arm, pulling back against his guidance of her toward the stairs — and, she supposes, the medical wing — and redirecting his steps. He seems to understand; he leads her into a darkened alcove where a lone suit of armour sluggishly shifts at their arrival, straightening its shoulders and righting its lance at a tipsy call to attention. The elves must've been about this morning — she'll have to remind them not to spread their magic so thinly. Anthony’s hand finds its way to her back, stroking small, soothing circles between her shoulder blades, and he murmurs, “Good. Now on your next breath in, I want you to hold the air in your lungs to the count of five, if you can.”

Hermione does, because it’s good advice, and common sense reminds her how much basic medical knowledge potions masters need to get accreditation. She works through the next minute or so like that, his small, calm reminders and steadying presence bringing her down from a precipice she's becoming resentfully familiar with. He doesn’t stop rubbing her back when she blows out her last breath, simply waits with quiet patience. 

“Thank you,” she says. It comes out a croak, startling her. “I’m sorry for—”

“No need,” he says, touch finally falling away. "I understand." 

Hermione looks up at him; his eyes are dark, haunted, and she remembers: His mother was being treated for a broken limb at St Mungo’s when the world cracked in half. There’s scant space in the alcove, but he takes a tiny step back to lean against the stones of the castle, crooking one knee and propping his foot up below him. 

After a beat, Anthony gives her a tired smile and continues, “Sometimes it’s all we can do to get through it.”

“Yes.” Hermione runs her hand through her hair and twists it up into a messy knot at her nape before realising she’s got nothing to hold it with. Then, to her surprise, Anthony pulls two slender, gold hairpins from the pocket of his robes and holds them out to her. Hermione takes them tentatively. They’re shaped like standard hairpins, only the prongs are a touch longer, and they have an intricate coil of wires resembling flowers at the end of each. “Are these your m—”

“Yes.” Anthony breaks off, throat working silently for a moment as his gaze swerves elsewhere. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out. When he looks back, he says, "Well. They’re meant to be a gift for her. Her birthday is next week.” He spreads his hands, a helpless little smile crossing his face. “I’ve been… carrying them around.”

Hermione doesn’t know what to say. She looks at the pins, so delicate and pretty, but sturdy too, something that might hold or decorate sleek hair for hours. She offers them back to him in her palm. “Then you should hold onto them for her.”

Anthony shakes his head. “I’ll get them back from you later. She’ll understand. She’ll even like that they were worn by someone who needed them, I think.”

He speaks as if he expects to see her again, though Hermione can see the worry in his face. He nods at her, a small jerk of the chin, and Hermione slowly tidies her hair into a knot again and slips the pins into it. “She sounds very nice.”

“She is.” He closes his eyes briefly and his smile widens, fond and warm, and the pit in Hermione’s stomach _aches_ , it’s so like the way she’s seen Ron look at Molly. Anthony opens his eyes. 

“You must be very close,” Hermione says. It feels like such a stupid thing to say, so obvious, she’s surprised when he huffs a soft laugh. 

“We can be,” he says, then pauses. “She won’t be happy to find out I’m in love with a Muggle, but it’ll be out of concern for her.”

Hermione grimaces with sympathy. The complexities of Pureblood families and their expectations still baffle her sometimes, married into one though she is. “Does she know yet? Your Muggle friend, I mean. That you’re a wizard?”

“Oh, yes. She’s come around, but she wasn’t best pleased either.”

“I can imagine,” Hermione says, her lips quirking unexpectedly. A serious commitment has to be made to get a waiver for the Statute of Secrecy — at least a sufficiently prolonged period of dating, more likely a promise of matrimony. But to get to that point without saying anything is a risk to the relationship in itself and, well, if it had been her and Ron, she would have positively _killed_ — 

Hermione's breath catches, her thoughtless smile falling away. Anthony pushes off from the stones, frowning.

“Are you okay?”

“Not— Not really, I suppose,” she admits. Then, in a blurt, “How is it so easy for you?” 

She’s horrified by her lack of tact, by the almost accusatory nature of the question, but Anthony just chuckles again, low and soft, and rakes his fingers through his dark curls. 

“I’m from a long line of people who cling rather obstinately to hope, Hermione, no matter how dark the times may be,” he says wryly. He levels an intense, serious look at her, his tone softening. “There’s always hope to be found in life — and vice versa.”

Hermione’s breath catches, her hand slipping into her pocket to touch the parchment like a talisman. It feels warm and soft against her fingertips, a reminder of how deeply she’s loved and has been loved. And there’s pain in it, yes, but when she looks deeper, there has been so much joy, too. 

“Thank you,” she tells him again, more genuinely this time. It’s hard to acknowledge the depth of what he’s done for her, more than simply coaxing her out of hyperventilation and talking to distract her, as if that wouldn’t have been enough. Too overwhelmed with her own issues and her multitude of responsibilities, she hasn't been doing enough to reassure her staff — her friends — but maybe this will serve as a reminder not to wallow. To focus on being of service. 

That's something that would make Ron proud, just another reason to be grateful for Anthony's help. She squeezes his arm when no words come, hoping he sees in her face everything she can’t say.

Anthony nods, a little sheepishly. He opens his mouth to say something, but the echoing clack of boots coming up the corridor makes them both look over. Two Unspeakables are headed toward her office wearing matching expressions of concern. 

“Damn,” Anthony murmurs and Hermione nods, a cold knot of dread tightening inside her.

 _Don’t know anyone like you, ‘Mione,_ Ron whispered on their honeymoon when she teasingly asked him why he loved her. She’d squirmed a little, having expected some ribald comment about sex. He’d still been firm inside her, his cheeks flushed, and he’d pulled her down so they were pressed against each other, her breasts squashed against his chest. His big hands had come up to frame her face. _You’re so brave; you don’t let anything get in your way. You look at what needs to be done, make up your mind, and do it, always the right thing. You’re the rightest thing._

Hermione rubs at her chest to dispel the new ache growing and clears her throat. She plucks at Anthony’s sleeve and steps from the alcove before the Unspeakables can even get to the exhausted gargoyles at the base of the stairs. Anthony’s presence behind her and Ron’s voice in her head — _Just the very rightest thing I’ve ever known…_ — shores her up. “I’m here.”

“Headmistress,” one of them says. Their grey robes and severe expressions tend to make them bleed together, though she supposes it doesn’t really matter which of them says what; if everyone gets through this alive, they’ll likely want to Obliviate away their identities, regardless.

“My office,” Hermione says, just in case a student wanders up. She hesitates, wondering if she should invite Anthony to follow, but he — thankfully — takes the decision out of her hands by giving her a small parting smile and walking in the opposite direction. 

The Unspeakables' footsteps go mute on the stairs, a light, muffled brush against the stone treads. Unspeakables were the last to get through the Floo Networks before the curse rendered them useless, at least as far as Hermione knows. They’d apparently been aware something was happening long before anyone else, had been monitoring Paris after certain red flags had been raised. When the curse was detonated, they tracked its likely progression before finally sending out an alert to the wizarding community to seek what sanctuary they could at home, or find it at Hogwarts. 

Hermione's furious at them for that, them and their bloody secrets; so many witches and wizards were lost, when they might have had a better chance at survival, had they been given more warning. But her indignation is conflicted, and she feels too much gratitude to give into it. Without their expertise and training, the fortification of elf magics around the wards might have been for nothing, and from what she can gather, they've managed to slow the curse as well. Unlimited knowledge isn't necessarily the gift she'd thought, as a child, that it would be. 

Impatient, Hermione holds the door open and their pace picks up. Both of them make for her desk, the woman pulling a scroll from her robes and unrolling it atop the piles of books and parchment, the man using her inkwell and three books at each corner to hold the scroll open. Hermione closes the door and approaches. 

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“It started early this morning,” the woman says, brushing strands of faded blonde hair from her eyes. She sighs. “We thought— because it was where the curse originated… But it’s something else.”

It’s a map of France, intricately detailed and obviously charmed. Each province sharpens when Hermione looks at them individually, streets and houses clearly visible to the naked eye, Paris in the middle. She can practically see the flow of the Seine. She nibbles on her lower lip. “All right. What is it?”

“We’re not sure,” the woman says. “Our monitoring shows a heavy build of magic, in this sector in particular,” she points to a misty grey spot in the wizarding district, which approximately matches Hermione’s memory of the placement of Malfoy’s hotel, “and it’s not sustainable.”

The parchment ripples, shifts. As Hermione watches, the grey spot grows and deepens. 

“It makes an adjustment every ten minutes,” the man tells her. His face is wreathed with exhaustion. “It’s been getting steadily darker for the last half hour.”

Hermione goes straight to the point. “How is it unsustainable, and what can we do?”

The woman finally looks away from the map to meet Hermione’s eyes. “The level of magic there could potentially — will _probably_ — kill anyone within a thousand metres. There’s nothing to be done about it. But you asked to be immediately notified about any developments in France.”

“Yes.” They don’t report to her of course, but seem to understand the importance of sharing information, at least for now, and that’s something Hermione can appreciate. She glances at the gauge that signifies when it’s safe enough to contact Harry. The amount of magic they’re redirecting into the wards has it rising slower and slower; the gauge barely cleared the bottom ‘safe’ tick. But she sent Harry after Malfoy days ago and it’s unlikely they’d still be in the nearby vicinity. If she contacts Harry and makes him pull his coin unnecessarily, she could be putting her plan for better communication at risk. Could be putting him in even more jeopardy.

Then again, if he’s had to hole up somewhere nearby; if their progress has been slow-going...

The Unspeakables watch her flounder, neither making objection nor giving advice when Hermione rests her hands on the map and leans in. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip again.

_Just the very rightest thing._

Hermione pulls her coin.

* * *

“Again,” Harry barks. He doesn’t need to — Malfoy follows his orders to the letter — but the use of that tone tends to spur them both on, and frankly Harry needs whatever motivation he can get right now. He’s starting to get short-tempered from their inability to leave the relative safety of the room yet, a low-grade claustrophobia pressing in on him.

Malfoy swipes his sweaty hair away from his face with the back of his wrist and falls forward from his knees into a plank position. Harry watches him a moment before following suit. Small grunts issue from Malfoy’s mouth with every push-up, but he doesn’t complain, in fact obeying Harry like a demon possessed. Harry considers that as he presses his chest to the floor and rises up — it’s the one good thing that’s come from their entrapment within these walls, Malfoy’s renewed fortitude. He supposes some part of him knew that Malfoy had to be resilient, what with everything he’d gone through in life, but he’s never before had the occasion to observe just how bloody resilient Malfoy could truly be. 

It might help that he’s got no choice, not with Harry riding his arse the way he is. After as full a breakfast Harry could shovel down Malfoy the first morning here, he’d given Malfoy no time to recover from the weakness of near-starvation, demanding that they do a full circuit of calisthenics almost immediately. Though it took Malfoy almost two hours to get through the first set, he’d gritted his teeth and _done_ it. It didn’t matter that Harry could complete four pushups to each one of his own, that he got winded after jogging in place for five minutes in the middle of the room. What matters is that Malfoy is as driven as Harry needs him to be, despite the long silences between them, despite the dead girl haunting Malfoy’s dreams. 

Maybe because of. 

Either way, they’d pushed through enough rounds of whatever conditioning and strengthening exercises Harry could think up: laps, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, curls. He eats when Harry says and drinks when he says, bathes and sleeps when Harry says, and with proper food, hydration, and rest, by the fourth morning Malfoy’s only lagging behind Harry by one of anything per set, if that. 

Malfoy’s still far too slender for Harry’s peace of mind, but even after only a few days Harry can tell he’s gained back some sorely-needed weight. Malfoy no longer looks so frail, like a hard wind might blow him over; his muscles are whipcord tight and there’s a resoluteness to the constant grimace on his face that reassures Harry a bit. Malfoy’ll need it for the upcoming trip. They both will. 

The only thing Malfoy _doesn’t_ have a handle on is the meditation Harry tries to guide them in. It’s a good way to clear the mind, the sort of focus Harry’s relied on to get him out of tight spots in the last few weeks. Malfoy’s flexibility fares well enough, but he ends up fidgeting restlessly the entire time, head twitching in a tilt to one side as though he’s listening to something Harry can’t hear, lips pressed so tight his mouth goes white around the edges. Harry suspects it’s to do with Pansy, who rests on the balcony just beyond the door, and with the dreams that wake Malfoy up every few hours, his hand hunting for Harry’s presence in the dark across the expanse of the bed. Harry’s taken to rolling toward the middle of the mattress when that happens and hooking a foot around Malfoy’s ankle; the touch seems to settle Malfoy enough that he can get back to sleep faster. Sleep’s important, and Harry can’t be sure when they’ll again have the opportunity for a restful night, once they’re outside. 

Harry glances over to check on him. Malfoy doesn’t look up, but a grimly wry smile ticks up the corner of his lips in response to Harry's stare as he matches Harry push-up for push-up. His face and hair are damp with perspiration, and dark patches stain the material of his t-shirt at the small of his back, under his arms. Harry looks back to the floor, away from Malfoy’s smile. It disturbs him in a way he can’t quite put a name to, the bladed slant to Malfoy’s cheekbone, the crinkles at the corner of his mouth. Harry thinks it might be that it’s the first time Malfoy’s looked like the Malfoy he used to know. Putting it out of his mind for now, Harry focusses on finishing the set. After fifty, he levers himself up to a sit, and Malfoy rolls to his back to catch his breath. He’s nowhere near as winded as he was even the last time Harry put him through his paces; that’s good. 

“Another round of laps?” Malfoy asks after a minute, chest still lightly heaving. It’s more of a wheeze, really, or even a whisper, but that’s something they’ve both got in the habit of, speaking as though they’re sharing secrets. It fosters a weird sense of affinity between them, and Harry doesn’t like it, doesn’t like that the confidential tone of Malfoy’s voice, its huskiness, reminds him of things he’s heard from Hermione and Ron. He can’t allow himself to care more than he already does; he’ll be happy when there’s enough distance from the city to speak at conversational levels again.

Malfoy waits for an answer, dragging the hem of his t-shirt up and wiping his face with it, like someone might in the training gym. It’s a strangely familiar gesture, and Harry sits back on his hands, refusing to be bothered by that as well. He knows he’s got no reason to be, other than because it displays the scars Harry gave him so long ago, and even that’s nothing in the face of what’s coming — or _should_ be nothing, at least. 

But it isn’t, and some combination of those components — Malfoy’s scars, his determined smirk, the casual drying of his face — accounts for the sharpness of Harry’s voice when he responds. “Food first. You’re still skinny as a wand.”

“That should make it harder for them to grab me,” Malfoy says, casting Harry a look. But he lets Harry haul him up from the floor and plops down easily at the foot of the bed. Harry can feel his gaze on him as he rifles through his pack to pull out a tin of beans, his can-opener, and the heavy bag of shelled pistachios he’d harvested from the market. Harry tosses the bag to Malfoy, who catches it deftly. The plastic rustles loudly as Malfoy unties it and reaches inside for a handful. Setting the bag aside, Malfoy adds, “If we ever actually leave.”

There’s a vague, flat note of question in Malfoy’s voice. Harry glances at him sharply, less surprised by the insinuation than he is by how long it took Malfoy to make. They’ve been in the room far longer than Harry anticipated, and though Malfoy’s been fairly patient, Harry’s been waiting for the point where Malfoy got sick of platitudes and half-promises. Hell, Harry’s sick of _making_ them, but it’s been… simpler to not broach the subject.

Easier, if he’s honest. 

He considers his words carefully as he opens the tin of beans, then searches for another — one would be far more than enough for them to split, but the morning is waning and it’s been a few hours since their breakfast of lukewarm porridge and peanut butter on crackers. Finding a second tin, he opens that too and casts warming charms over them both. He hands one to Malfoy on the bed and walks back over to the table to sit, then takes a breath. “I haven’t found a quieting pattern to them, yet. Yesterday they were moving about the street at high noon but the day before, that’s when they all seemed to come indoors.”

“Yesterday had a lot of cloud cover,” Malfoy says. He tosses several pistachios into his mouth and crunches on them for a minute, a calculating glint to his gaze. “Doesn’t really matter, though, does it? You got here after sunset. It’s possible to travel when they’re out.”

“You go ahead, then,” Harry snaps. Malfoy startles hard, recoiling away from Harry though they’ve got several feet between them, and Harry instantly regrets his tone. He puts his tin down with a thunk and rubs his forehead. “Sorry. I—” He sighs. “Cloud cover is a possibility, but it’s nearly as dark today, and I can hear them moving around outside.”

That’s the least of Harry’s concerns right now, really, but there’s no real way to talk to Malfoy about them without alarming him unnecessarily. Or necessarily, he’s not sure. But he doesn’t want to go back to Malfoy’s stuttery panic from the first night. He’s got the feeling that no matter how well Malfoy’s been applying himself to their rigorous training, that break of hyper-awareness and disbelief is still simmering just under the surface of his psyche. Harry doesn’t really have time for that, and he resents worrying about when or if it’s going to happen. 

The tension in Malfoy’s shoulders eases after a moment. He doesn’t say anything as he pours another conservative palmful of nuts into his hand and twists the bag closed with a loose knot. He tosses it in Harry’s direction without looking and applies himself to his tin of beans, using three curled fingers like he would a spoon until he can’t easily reach them. Sucking the sauce from his fingers, he says, in a rather calm tone, “You’ll regret it if you try to make me your whipping boy, Potter, just as much as you will for underestimating me.” He tips the tin up to his mouth and pats at the end of it. 

Harry swallows, his own bite of baked beans growing mushy against his tongue. He opens the bag of pistachios, but pauses before taking any. “The traffic has increased outside our room. I wasn't sure yesterday, but I paid more attention last night the last night. I think there are more of them directly below our window, too.”

Malfoy chews, contemplating that. His throat bobs when he swallows and he stares at nothing in the distance before inhaling for what seems a long time. Finally, a little haltingly, he says, “I— wondered if I was imagining that.” His mercurial eyes flick to Harry, and he worries his upper lip between his teeth. He shrugs one shoulder in a twitchy gesture, like someone might unsettle a fly that had landed on them, sounding cautious when he asks, “Why, do you think?”

Harry sits back and fiddles with the tin on the table, sliding it back and forth. Gaze on it, he says, “Not sure. Maybe they remember me coming in here. Maybe the magic of two wizards in one nearby space is too big a lure, even when we’re hardly using it. They didn’t do that before I showed up?”

“Congest the hall like this?” Malfoy glances at the door, where the shuffle of feet is as constant and horrifying as the scrape of nails against the walls and soft, needy demands of hundreds of different, deadened voices. Twice in the middle of the night, Harry’d sat up with his heart pounding and one hand hovering over Malfoy’s prone form, sure he’d heard the door rattle as if the weight of the locks was being clumsily tested. Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s... possible, but I don’t think so.”

Well, that’s not good. Harry forces down the rest of his beans in silence, Malfoy’s gaze heavy against the side of his face as he considers. As much as he’d been hoping — or maybe just trying to convince himself — that he’d been imagining things the previous night, he’s suddenly, blindingly aware of how dangerous that is, how much he’s lowered his guard. If the Inferi really are capable of any sort of sentient thought beyond the instinctive following of commands, then what’s to stop them from figuring out how to get in? 

“We’ll leave tomorrow at first light,” Harry says, abruptly certain they can’t stay any longer than that without serious risk. “Somehow.”

“Are you saying you don’t know how we'll—?” The cords of Malfoy’s throat appear, and he looks truly angry for a moment. He blows out a measured breath. “What was your original plan?”

 _What’s the plan, Harry?_ It’s just reminiscent enough of the constant refrain Harry’s heard for so long, in one way or another, that he glares at Malfoy without realising until Malfoy’s lips tighten in a frown and he notches his chin up stubbornly. Harry narrows his eyes; although he hadn’t intended his look to be a glare, he certainly does now.

“As much as I appreciate the credit you’re trying to give me, my life’s been more about following orders than giving them,” he mutters, rising to toss his empty tin. He turns around and props himself against the table’s edge, folding his arms. May as well make things clear before they go. “At work, there are _rules_ I can follow when making a plan, the sort that don’t take into account the whole of the Continent getting wiped out with magic-hungry Inferi. My _plan_ , Malfoy, went as far as finding a way in here to see if you were alive. And any plan I make _now_ is made second by second, because out there, “ Harry jerks his chin to the window, slid partially open to let in the breeze, “that’s the way you have to live. Understand?”

“Not particularly.” Malfoy stands too, his arm lashing out. His own tin barely misses crashing through the window, hitting the far wall with a heavy clank before falling to the floor. Harry looks at the door, hearing the pause of creatures outside it, then back to Malfoy, who’s stalking up to him, the muscles of his face taut with repressed fury, or pain, or fear. All of them, maybe. Harry pushes away from the table and holds his ground, almost spoiling for a fight he can spend some time on, for the opportunity to take a swing without the fear of contact, but Malfoy stops before him when they’re nearly chest-to-chest. He says, “You come here and tell me you’re getting us _out of here_ , and I don’t question it, Potter. I’ve been doing your bidding under the impression that you _knew what that was._ And now you’re telling me—”

“Wait.”

“Fuck y—”

“No, wait.” Harry puts up a hand, the thundering of his blood through his veins changing speed, taking on new shape and turning cold as he digs with his opposite side into his pocket and pulls out the coin, too-hot in his grip. He turns his back on Malfoy to set it on the table before it burns him. “Get everything together, as fast as you can.”

Malfoy makes a sound of frustration. “What the bloody—”

“ _Do it,_ ” Harry says, tersely enough that, after only another moment’s pause, he hears Malfoy start moving about the room for the few things not in Harry’s bag. Harry waits, distractedly taking and shrugging on his jacket when Malfoy nudges him in the shoulder with it, staring down at the coin all the while. It’s gone orange-white with heat, which means Hermione and Ron must be utilising a lot of magic to contact him; the coin only heats as quickly as the messages can be sent, which is not very. Its temperature running so high, so fast, goes beyond ‘urgent enough to use’ and straight into ‘listen to me right the fuck now’ territory. Appropriate, considering the magic itself might signal the fuckers outside.

Harry twitches his head when Malfoy comes to stand beside him, alert and silent, glancing from the coin to Harry’s face and back. Some part of Harry’s mind notes that Malfoy’s put shoes on, that he’s holding Harry’s boots in one hand, as characters start to form. 

“Quill and parchment,” he says, and Malfoy grabs the complementary set the hotel offers with gratifying haste. Harry jots down the symbols to translate. 

_260,_ it reads — the total number of characters that can be transmitted, both to and from, and even _that’s_ nerve-wracking; it’s never been less than five hundred before. Harry nods and takes the boots from Malfoy, sitting in the chair and putting them on blindly as new symbols form. _Gt out of Prs nw. Smthng Drk cvrng cty fst, cntrd at htl whr y got hm. Hw fr r u? rd?_

“Shit, _shit_.” Harry waves a hand to cut off Malfoy’s question. Beyond a two-second communication to let Hermione know Malfoy was alive when he’d woken up the morning after he'd arrived at the hotel, and the friendly flare of warmth that indicated she’d got his message, they’ve been out of contact. Harry hurriedly glances at the door; they’re still silent in the halls. Waiting. He takes his wand and transmits, _Rd. Stl at htl. Srrnded. Hw mch tm, rd?_

 _Rd. Hrry. Mp is gng blck, gtng drkr thr. Rd?_ The “hurry” glows gold for a solid few seconds before fading to the white of the other symbols. Harry swallows and looks up at Malfoy, whose face is pale, his chest starting to rise and fall quickly. 

Taking a breath, Harry says, “No, don’t panic,” and, here, a sudden shudder of the door rocks them both around to stare at it. 

The frame shakes, and the unnerving silence ends with the shrieking of the voices outside. A battlecry if Harry’s ever heard one. 

He inhales, letting his mind go blank. He rolls his head from side to side unthinkingly, neck loosening when it cracks; he shifts his shoulders to limber them up. “Get the broom,” he says. Malfoy does a double-take and Harry shakes his head. “Don't panic,” he says again. “Just get the broom and… Do what you can with it. If we can’t make it work again, we’ll... Climb from balcony to balcony.”

Malfoy doesn’t move for a second, wide eyes trained on the door. Then: “Good fucking _plan_ , Potter, these balconies are only about five metres apart.” He scoffs it, but strides to the balcony to get the broom. 

Harry looks back to the coin; they’ve got to be getting close to the limit. He taps out, _Rd. Wrkng on it. Rd?_

 _Rd. Cnct whn ot,_ he translates quickly, hand steadier than it perhaps should be. But then Hermione sends over a series of numbers, and Harry pauses after copying them down. Half-finished coordinates? Hermione writes _D y stl hv mmbds? Rd?_

What the…?

He’s just about to ask even though he’s positive the spell is now leaking magic into the air like a scent that might drive the Inferi mad, when he puts it together: The Magic-Muffling Beads. Harry exhales hard.

_Rd. Ys. Rd?_

“ _Potter!_ ” Malfoy hisses as the doorframe cracks under the pressure, like bodies are throwing themselves against it. Harry tunes everything out, vision tunnelling to the coin. 

_Rd. 10 dys. Go._

Harry taps the coin with his wand to send the warmth of closing communication and picks it up, stuffing it and the coordinates into different pockets. The coin is still blisteringly hot and though he knows it won’t harm his clothing, it’s scalding against his hip and he doesn’t want to risk damaging the parchment. Resolutely disregarding the pain, he straps his wand holster to his thigh and slings his scabbard around his hips, buckling it nimbly. The door frame cracks again, the upper hinge popping off. 

“Potter!” Malfoy yells from the balcony. “It’s not working!”

Sweeping the room with one last look, Harry joins him. He slides the thick glass door closed just as the Inferi flood in, busting the door to the hall into nothing but flying shards of wood. His heart drums a fast, knocking beat against his breastbone, but one of steady urgency rather than fear. They’re surrounded anyway, so Harry takes a step back and pulls his wand. He aims it at the metal frame of the glass door and grits his teeth to access enough magic, then melts the lock, welding it into place. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. 

The Inferi scream at him through the barrier of the glass, thick enough that he’s bought them a little time. A minute, or maybe two, if they’re lucky. They scrabble at the door, howling, some of their faces half-rotted away, and Harry turns to Malfoy to find him staring down at Pansy's sheet-covered body. 

“She’s—”

“Gone,” Harry says curtly. He jerks the broom from Malfoy’s grip and mounts it, but with the way the Inferi suck magic from the atmosphere, he’s already used up what he can manage from his initial burst to seal the door. Malfoy’s still staring, and Harry growls and shakes his arm, “It wouldn’t work for you, either?” 

Malfoy shakes his head wordlessly. It’s likely because he can’t bring himself to use his or Pansy’s wands, which Harry’s got Shrunken in one of his jacket pockets at this point; they were too distracting to Malfoy when he’d left them out, and magic tends to either weaken or strengthen exponentially when it goes unused. But they’re pressed for time and Harry doesn’t even bother to comment; they can discuss the specifics of why and what to do about it later. 

Stepping away, Harry eyes the balcony nearest to them — two metres in distance, at the most. Malfoy’s always been a dramatic bastard; Harry doesn’t know why he expected the apocalypse might change that. Still, it’s roughly the length of a fully-grown man, and it’s not like they have a lot of space to start at a run. Harry shoots the broom straight across, barely letting it clatter to the stone before grabbing the bags from Malfoy’s unresisting shoulders and tossing them over too. At their thuds onto the other balcony, Malfoy finally seems to understand what’s happening, and drags his gaze from the Inferi who’re apparently trying to claw through the glass.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Harry brushes it off. He grips the wrought-iron railing to test its strength. When it doesn’t jiggle at a few forceful tugs, he climbs onto it, one hand on the wall to keep his balance. 

“Harry,” Malfoy breathes. It almost stops him, his name falling from Malfoy's lips, but after a split second they can ill-afford to waste, Harry brushes that off too. He centres himself, putting it all out of his mind: the Inferi on the ground gathering just below them, Malfoy’s disbelief, the fact that the distance is possibly a little further than he thought. Harry bends his knees, tucks his hips, and launches, arms outstretched. He gets better reach than he anticipated and almost clears the railing of the other balcony, the tops of his thighs and knees grinding hard against it as he catches himself against the ground with his hands. Pushing himself up, he takes a glance at the room it belongs to — empty, thank fuck — and gathers their things before turning back. 

Malfoy stares at him. The glass at his side is shaking. 

“Come _on_ ,” Harry snarls. “You’ve not gone and got yourself afraid of heights now too, have you?”

Every second Malfoy hesitates is another they can’t get back, and Harry’s on the verge of trying the broom again without him when Malfoy gives a tiny shake of his head and climbs the railing with graceful agility. His throat works silently, and he flinches when another scream issues from their room, accompanied by the slow creak of glass cracking, like ice over a frozen lake. Malfoy nods and inhales, lip caught between his teeth, then bends and jumps. His forward-momentum is decent, but the angle is off somehow, and Harry sees it the instant before realisation hits Malfoy’s face. He scrambles forward and reaches out even as Malfoy’s long torso hits the railing with a bone-jarring force. Malfoy falls, hands frantic as they slide against the iron, and Harry barely feels Malfoy’s straining forearms in his sweaty palms until he almost drops him. He adjusts and tightens his grip, the railing buckling slightly when Malfoy’s weight propels Harry into it and his fall jerks to a heavy stop, his wrists in Harry’s hands. 

“Look at me, Malfoy,” Harry says. Malfoy’s eyes are huge, the whites of his eyes rolling like a panicked thestral, his body dangling and whipping midair. Harry’s waist hurts, pressed against the top of the balustrade, and one of his shoulders is screaming, but he keeps his voice calm. “Draco. I’ve got you. Stop thrashing. Hold onto me and breathe.” He glances down when Malfoy suddenly goes still. “The terrace is— You can reach it. I won’t let go. Lift your foot and feel for it.”

They have to hurry, _have to_ — Harry can hear the squealing _ch-ch-ch-ch_ of the glass losing integrity from their room — but he manages a smile. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Thought you weren’t afraid of heights.”

Malfoy flicks his gaze to Harry and lets out a low, shuddering breath. He curls his lower body up from the waist, gripping Harry tight for leverage. It makes him swing slightly, hitting the bottom of the terrace with his hips, and weight pulling on Harry’s arms increases. Harry clamps his jaw shut and watches Malfoy edge one foot up, toe-ing it carefully onto the sculpted edge of stone, inch by inch. When all but the heel of his shoe is on it, he pushes up with his leg. Harry takes small steps back to haul him up, not loosening his hold even when Malfoy’s got both feet up, not until Malfoy slings his legs over the railing and slides to safety. 

They pause and catch their breaths. Malfoy says, “Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Harry’s arm explodes with a hot flare of pain that travels from his elbow to his collarbone, localised in his shoulder, when he lets go of Malfoy, who immediately starts rubbing circulation back into his own wrists. Harry tries to rotate his shoulder, hissing under his breath when he can’t. “I—”

The glass cracks, louder. Malfoy glances back, then looks at Harry. “What?”

“Nothing.” Harry squirms the bags off his back and picks up the broom with his good arm. The whole thing’s got to have taken less than a minute, but if they were short on time before, they’re bleeding it now. He can worry about a wrenched shoulder when they’re out. “Put those on. You’re trained to lend magic, right?”

Malfoy slings the strap of his travel bag around his neck and slides Harry’s bag onto his back. “Unspeakables? ...Yeah.”

“I need you to access _any_ latent magic you’ve got and lend it to me,” Harry says, mounting the broom again. There’s a small pause before Malfoy straddles it behind him, tucking his chest and pelvis close against Harry’s back. His hands slide around Harry’s waist to lock together over his stomach and Harry tries not to flinch when it jostles his arm. Fortunately, his hands are working just fine, and though it hurts, he can grip and angle them on the broom. “I think the distance from them is enough I can use some of mine, but—” Fuck, there’s not even any time to explain the way they drain nearby magic; why hasn’t he used their time to do that?! “Just— even enough for a wandless _Lumos._ ”

“Yeah,” Malfoy says again. His breath is hot against the back of Harry’s ear, against his cheek. He feels Malfoy’s chest expand with a slow breath, hands tightening together. 

“I’ll get us as far as I can,” Harry says over the screams of Inferi below them. Dozens of them are even climbing atop others in a maddened, growing tangle up the side of the ground floor, a horrific wall akin to creeping ivy. The glass door on their balcony finally shatters and Harry raises his voice. “Be ready to run.”

Malfoy presses his cheek to Harry’s shoulder with a small nod, and Harry closes his eyes and sends a blank prayer for survival in what he hopes is Hermione and Ron’s direction. He searches inside himself for any sliver of magic he’s still got and pushes off from the ground. The broom rises and instantly dips, the twigs of its tail smacking into the ground, but then he feels a hazy curl of magic slip inside him to fuse with his own. It’s startlingly intimate, like lying in bed and memorising someone’s sleepy smile, the smell of sex still heavy in the room. Harry’s not prepared for it; he hears himself make a tiny noise. 

“Potter, go,” Malfoy says a bit breathlessly, biceps bunching tighter against Harry’s ribcage. Harry blinks himself back into the moment, a little dizzy, and finds that they’re hovering in place, steady. 

Harry aims the broom handle above the railing and leans in, and they shoot away from the hotel with satisfying speed, clean wind hitting Harry’s face as he takes them higher. Malfoy’s magic in him dwindles and pulses back, and they lose some height as the broom starts to fight them. Harry lets it happen and falls into an easy glide instead of trying to fly out of the district the way he’d been hoping to. The broom settles under them, putting more and more distance between them and where the Inferi have gathered in and around the hotel so stubbornly, like a dark knot of death closing in. From his periphery, he sees the ones from their balcony topple over it to the ground; they’re probably stunned but they’ve obviously noticed his and Malfoy’s flight, which means it won’t be long before the others do too. 

The landing is a bit clumsy, the broom losing stamina as Malfoy’s magic does, but Harry keeps them straight enough that they make it to the wall concealing wizarding Paris before their feet touch the ground. Harry pulls his wand even as the broom hits the cobblestone lifelessly, but with a sudden ice flooding his veins, he sees he doesn’t need it — the magic barrier between the wizarding and Muggle worlds has all but fallen, the streets of Paris flickering but visible through the brick. He lifts his hand to the wall; it ripples, then disappears entirely. 

“They're coming,” Malfoy says and Harry doesn’t spare another moment to look back and verify. He simply starts running. 

Malfoy keeps pace, huffing beside him, his long strides pounding the pavement under them with much more ease than Harry would expect for someone who’s been so inactive until recently; he’s a runner, that much is clear. And whether due to the sharing of his magic or just sheer luck, he seems to anticipate Harry’s movements, each abrupt turn into an alley, each dodge away from a street Harry recognises, as cleanly as a hunted gazelle. Harry concentrates on that, on Malfoy’s grace and almost psychic understanding of how Harry operates in an escape — it helps Harry to overlook the now-searing pain in his shoulder, throbbing tremendously with every footfall he takes. He grips his bad arm in his working one, pressing it against his side to keep it stationary, and pushes on.

Harry doesn’t know how much time passes before he can no longer hear the Inferi behind them. It’s probably only minutes — ten, fifteen — but it feels like hours, like days, and he's been dizzy with pain, nauseous from it, for all of them. When he finally notices their lack of pursuit, he allows himself to slow just a touch and counts for two minutes, each second agony, before darting in between a ransacked row of blue-and-white homes. The pathway is strung with clothing lines, long-neglected sheets half falling from their pins and fluttering in the breeze. Harry stops behind a wheelie bin, panting and clinging to his arm. He goes down on his haunches and Malfoy crouches beside him, cheeks flushed, nervous gaze darting around.

“Why’ve we stopped? I can keep going,” he whispers. “Potter, they’re still about, let’s keep going.” He grips Harry’s bicep with a little shake and though Harry can’t help the choked cry that falls from his mouth, at least he bites it off into a whimper.

“I— need a minute,” he says. He feels Malfoy’s gaze sharpen, but can’t make himself look at him, can’t make himself look at his own arm. He won’t be able to go on if he does, if he has to put a name to what’s wrong with it. He stares at the undulation of the sheets, now stained by the elements, and says, “Just give me a minute.”

“Potter, your arm.” Malfoy reaches for it.

“ _No_ ,” Harry says. He draws in a breath. “No, don’t touch it. It’ll be—”

“It’s dislocated.”

Shitting fuck. Harry closes his eyes, a fresh wave of pain pulsing through him. Trust Malfoy to obliterate what tenuous hold Harry has over his control of it. “I’ll wrap it. I just need to wrap it. There’s something I can use for a sling in my bag,” he says. “We don’t have time for me to fix it, and we’re too exposed here.”

Malfoy comes down onto his knees and shrugs both of the bags from his back. Harry blinks; he’d somehow forgotten that Malfoy was carrying them. He waits for Malfoy to open the flap of his bag but Malfoy merely takes a brief glance around and reaches for Harry’s arm again. 

Harry jerks away. “I said just wrap it!” he hisses. 

“I will,” Malfoy says brusquely, “if you’ll stop whinging at me and let me get it out of your jacket. The leather will make the sling too loose and bulky. Your arm should be strapped directly to your side.”

Grudgingly, Harry holds himself in place as Malfoy pulls his good arm from its sleeve, then works the jacket down his dislocated arm. Harry glances down and immediately away, grinding his teeth against the bile threatening to rise in his throat. His shoulder joint juts out under the skin against the fabric of his t-shirt, a dark green-blue bruise discolouring his arm where Malfoy peels the material up to take a look. 

“Stop it.”

“I can fix this,” Malfoy murmurs.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says through his teeth. “I’ve had one before.”

“One that you fixed without magic?” Malfoy asks, still palpating the dislocation. Harry’s body hurts with tension, from his toes curled in his boots all the way to his forehead, and the sweat gathering there goes cold on his skin.

“No, but I—” Harry breaks off, mouth flooding sickly with saliva as Malfoy lifts his wrist to rest against his own shoulder. 

“Hold onto me and relax,” Malfoy says, and since it seems he’s going to do it either way, Harry digs his fingers into Malfoy’s shoulder and swallows several times in succession as he forces his body to relax despite the pain. Malfoy cups the underside of Harry’s arm below the loose joint, firmly grasps the top of Harry’s shoulder, and—

“ _Fuck_.” Fortunately, it comes out a barely-whispered breath, even Harry’s vocal cords seizing up at the pain that jolts through him as the joint pops back into place. Harry gags, the beans and pistachios threatening an appearance again, but after several seconds, the pulsating shocks radiating out from his shoulder lessen, and he’s able to pull in a deep, clearing breath. Malfoy sets Harry’s hand in his lap and hunts through the bag. “Check the front pockets,” Harry says.

Malfoy does, and a moment later pulls out a long, stretchy roll of bandage. Gaze narrow, tongue pressing the side of his cheek, Malfoy unrolls it and winds it around Harry, pinning his forearm to his waist and wrapping the bandages around Harry’s shoulder to keep it from moving too much. He hands Harry a small cloth and sets the bag to rights before exhaling and looking back to Harry’s face.

“Thank you,” Harry says. 

“It was my fault, wasn’t it?” Malfoy asks. He makes a vague gesture over his shoulder. “When I—”

“Just happened.”

“Well, that should last you until we can find some potions, or at least ice,” Malfoy says. “Something for the pain and swelling.”

Harry’s got a bottle of paracetamol somewhere in his bag, but they’ve already spent too much time in one place. The sun is almost directly overhead now, signifying noon — usually the safest time to travel — and he doesn’t want to lose whatever advantage they’ve gained, so he nods and takes Malfoy’s proffered hand when Malfoy rises, grunting quietly when Malfoy hauls him up. 

“My jacket,” Harry says. He feels naked without it, outdoors, the skin of his arms pebbling with goosebumps. Whitney’d only removed her robes to shake them out — _God, I need a bath, and if I’m honest, Harry, you could really use one, too_ — her nose wrinkling with distaste as she’d whipped them a few times, dust and grime clouding the air. Neither of them had seen the Inferi come from around the corner, and then it was too late. 

Malfoy swoops down to retrieve the jacket. With an absent-minded sort of competence, he holds it open for Harry to slip his good arm into, then grabs a small, fitted crib-sheet from one of the lines and ties it around Harry’s waist. Harry tests it, twisting at the waist and bouncing on his toes a little to see if the jacket will slip off. It’s not the best solution, perhaps, a little too bulky to be truly comfortable or allow for the widest range of manoeuvering, but the jacket stays in place and his shoulder, while not comfortable, feels vastly improved from before. Without thinking, Harry smiles at him. Malfoy blinks and smiles back.

And then the air gets sucked out of the space between them, the buildings around them shaking and the ground pitching hard, as an explosion rocks them off their feet.


	5. Chapter Four: Psalm 18:39

They walk.

Unsteady and injured but alive, they walk. For a time, it’s the only thing Draco’s aware of beyond the steady ringing in his ears: the rising burn in his thighs, the soreness of his feet with each step against the pavement. The gathering storm has fled without shedding a drop of rain, and the sun makes an appearance. After a while, Draco holds up a hand to shield his eyes from it and Potter digs out a pair of glasses from one of the pockets of the bag slung over his good shoulder, handing them to Draco without saying a word. Draco slides them on curiously; they’re not as comfortable as dimming charms, but the dark lenses dull his headache a little. When Draco tries to thank him, Potter waves his hand sharply and whispers, “Not until we’re out of the city.”

It doesn’t feel like there’s much city left, anymore. 

Oh, some is still certainly left in front of them — Muggle roadways and housing structures, shops and cafés visible if unrelentingly tainted by the markings of scavengers and the dead. But behind them lies a crater. Draco only caught a single glimpse before he had to turn away, unable to look at the city that served as a solace to him those two years after he'd been freed, so lively and full of hope then, and now so devastated it seems barely more than a rising cloud of black soot. He doesn’t know how far the crater extends, if it’s taken out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées, or if it's contained to the wizarding district, but either way the topography of Paris has been changed forever. 

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Clings to that. He’d likely never have returned anyway, not after what’s taken place here. Not after what he’s had to do. But with each flutter of smoky magic and burnt earth that wisps past them, he’s reminded that the life he’s built to overcome his old one has been irrevocably altered. Trapped in the room, sure he’d not make it out alive, that had seemed a trifling thing to worry about. Out in the open, with Potter at his side and the lowering sun glaring down at them, dead bodies littering the streets, it’s different. He’s supposed to feel hope now. ...Isn’t he?

“Only thing we can hope for is getting back home in one piece,” Potter mumbles before falling silent again, and Draco realises he’s said that last part aloud. Maybe all of it. 

They trudge on. 

When the bottom of the sun nears the horizon just to their left, Potter stops him with a hand to his wrist. Draco looks around. Eyes on the road directly in their path for most of the day, following Potter’s body cues, he hasn’t paid attention to much. They’ve kept to side streets, near the walls of buildings, turning corners at a careful pace and slipping across bridges between abandoned automobiles. They've had to jog sometimes and slow others, but it still seems that they’ve managed to put some real distance between themselves and whatever happened behind them. They stand on a roadway now, green shrubbery on each side, idle vehicles on the street.

“Where are we?” Draco asks under his breath. 

“We’ve been travelling along A-14,” Potter says, as though Draco should know what that is. It’s not hard to figure out really, but Draco feels an encouraging flare of irritation; it’s good to know he still can. Their stupid argument that morning — only _that morning_ , sweet Merlin — was the first time he’s felt anything in weeks, other than numbing grief, fear, or blank focus. Of course, as soon as the comparison flits into his mind, the emotion bleeds away. Potter looks around, hand coming off Draco’s wrist to rest against the handle of the huge, sheathed knife he’s got at his hip. He says, “I’ve been hoping we’d make it to the Regional Wildlife Preserve, but—”

“That’s got to be sixty kilometres!” 

“Quiet,” Potter orders, gaze sweeping around them. He shifts on his foot and turns, lips pressing tight, and Draco takes the opportunity to observe him unchecked. Potter’s face is greasy with sweat, his skin sallow. He’s got to be boiling in that jacket of his, or at least bloody uncomfortable, but he hasn’t said a single word about it the whole way, hasn’t suggested they stop so they can re-wrap his arm. Draco’s suddenly, painfully aware of his own thirst and encroaching hunger. He’s about to ask to borrow Potter’s wand when Potter turns to face him again and slips it from his holster, spelling a jet of water into his own mouth. He hands it over and, while Draco is blinking with surprise, says, “I’ve got a good sense of direction but I’m not best with distances. I want to cut through the preserve; I think we’ll run into fewer of them there.”

“It’s heavily wooded,” Draco says, before taking a drink. His pause lasts longer than he means for it to, the water delicious and soothing to his parched mouth, and Potter nods.

“Yeah, but on my way to Paris, I saw more of them in populated areas. Some in surrounding suburbs, but… We tend to set up in cities.”

Wizarding-kind, he means. Draco finishes his drink and returns the nod, tugging up the collar of his shirt to wipe his mouth, curious when Potter’s frown deepens. “Magic is less noticeable in cities. You’ll find the odd town which integrates, usually older ones where folklore tends to run rampant and the Muggles aren’t as flustered by witnessing the unexplainable, but… yes.” He relinquishes Potter’s wand regretfully; it warms his hand. “You don’t think they might gravitate toward darkened areas?”

“It’s a possibility,” Potter says. He takes another drink and tucks his wand away with a grimace. Draco broke his wrist as a child but still remembers how infuriating his limited mobility had been before the regenerative potions took effect, and he doesn’t envy Potter’s journey without such help. He’s decently skilled with practical Healing — all Unspeakables need to be — but magic would put those skills to shame. Potter runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “Still, I think we’re better off risking that than sleeping where we know people are.”

Struck by that, Draco glances around. “I haven’t seen anyone,” he says, abruptly uneasy by the fact, “not since…” He gestures over his shoulder.

“I have.” Potter starts walking again, leading Draco around a large, overturned vehicle, much bigger than the ones he usually sees people sporting about in. Its wheels are huge, and its back is comprised of two doors, one of them flung open. Potter pauses. “Stay here.”

Without waiting for a response, he climbs into what looks like a cavernous storage cupboard. Draco’s discomfort spirals toward paranoia, the nape of his neck prickling as though he’s got a wand pointed at him. He turns his back to the doors and looks around but doesn’t see any movement. A moment later, Potter reappears, walking down the open metal door like it’s a ramp. He hands Draco… a bottle of shampoo?

“What—?”

Potter shrugs his good shoulder. “We could find some use for it. I haven’t had a chance to check what you packed, so I don’t know if you included yours. At the very least, we’ll have some soap to sanitise any open wounds. Looks posh.”

“I did pack it,” Draco says, disregarding the vaguely snide tone that accompanies the word ‘posh.’ Besides, he was running low and Potter’s point is valid, so he takes the bottle and wedges it into what little space is left in his bag. “What did you mean, you’ve seen people?”

“You learn to spot them,” Potter says as they continue on. “In windows, hiding behind things. Muggles, mostly, I think. Probably inside when the cities were overrun, smart enough not to start looting as soon as the panic for resources took hold. That’s when most people....” He hesitates, and when he speaks again, his words are halting. Gentle. “We’re not the only ones alive, Malfoy.”

“No, we’re just—”

“What?”

It’s an ugly truth, but Draco makes himself say it. “An endangered species, now.”

Potter’s quiet for a beat. He stops and slides his glasses to the top of his head, then grinds the heel of his palm over one eyebrow. His voice is rough. “Yeah.” 

Replacing his glasses, Potter lets out a shuddering breath. Draco watches him, the urge to apologise lingering in his chest. But for what? He hasn’t said anything Potter doesn’t already know, though for someone who’s been carrying the title of ‘Saviour’ for the last couple of decades, Potter’s probably struggling with different aspects of the loss than Draco is. He wonders if it’s because Potter’s ended up taking that title to heart. Merlin knows he once did, and his choice of career speaks volumes about the personal responsibility he takes in everything. 

“Mostly witches and wizards, though,” Potter murmurs. “We’re such a small community, even globally, that what’s happened here… Well, other countries are going to fare better. Wiping out a section of Europe, where so many of us live, is a hit we weren’t prepared to take. We’ve become… too reliant on magic, the way Muggles are with things like electricity. But electricity doesn’t draw them the way magic does.”

Them. _Them._ What an utterly benign way to describe the living dead. Draco says so, disgruntled by it.

“Should I call them zombies?” Potter asks, a humourless smile curling his lips. But his good arm arcs out before Draco can ask what he means, the flat of his hand slapping Draco in the middle of the chest. Under his breath, he says, “Don’t move.”

Draco follows Potter’s gaze. They’re half-shielded by a bus with no roof that has _Parisian Tours_ scripted on the side in blue, white, and red, but beyond them he sees movement: A lone woman, shuffling as though injured. Draco takes a step toward her, stopped only by the pressure of Potter’s hand on him.

“ _No,_ ” Potter hisses. “Get back. _Go._ ”

Her hair is messy, dark, half-covering her face, and she walks with a limp, her slender shoulders rounded forward. Her pale green dress flutters in the breeze, its skirt stained with blood. She’s got no shoes on, and she’s so petite, the delicate bones of her feet reminding him of—

She looks up. 

Ice washes through Draco. Because it’s not her, no, it’s one of _them_ , but there’s enough of a resemblance that he can’t make himself move, and her filmy eyes are locked on him as though Potter isn’t even there. Draco hears Potter say something at his side, and then the woman is moving, picking up speed, and Potter’s hand is gone from Draco’s chest. The woman rushes toward them, toward Draco, and the voice he’d thought might have vanished in the explosion speaks sharply in his ear, “ _Youknewyouknewyou—_ ” 

Potter steps in front of him, swinging his arm with a grunt, and a small cry falls from Draco’s lips as her body jerks, then crumples. Potter exhales loudly, bending to wipe the saturated blade of his weapon on her skirt as the world swoops around Draco. He straightens, fixing his gaze on Draco’s face. 

“Why in hell didn’t you—?” Potter sounds livid, but doesn’t finish his question. Draco drags his gaze away from the body, stomach roiling. The sun is starting to set in earnest. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Draco says, and just in time, too. He folds over in the middle of the roadway, all of the water he’s drunk spewing back out of his mouth, acidic and hot. Potter turns, presumably to scan for more of them, but whatever the reason, Draco’s grateful for the moment of privacy as he finishes emptying his stomach onto the pavement. He puts a hand to the tour vehicle and pushes himself back to standing, legs shaky. 

“Come on,” is all Potter says. His face is grim. “We’ve got to set up before it gets dark.” He fumbles his bag off his shoulder and finds a map within one of its pockets, unfolding it and scanning it with a brief nod. He closes it up and stuffs it in the pocket of his worn joggers instead of putting it where it belongs, then hefts his bag once more. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” But Draco’s feet don’t move. He’s no stranger to violence. He spent some of his formative years being forced to watch the worst sort, day in and out. Learned just how to best inflict it on others. His father had been insistent upon that. There’s a part of the mind that disconnects from being present as atrocities are committed; there’d have to be, or he’d have long since gone mad. He doesn’t know why he can’t remove himself from this situation as well. It doesn’t even compare to— to—

Potter’s hand lands on one of his shoulders and Draco starts, not having realised he’d approached. The harsh set of his mouth has deepened, but he just looks at Draco for a long, quiet moment, and then squeezes his shoulder in a reassuring manner. Holding onto him, Potter turns Draco around, then leads him to the side of the roadway, their long strides hitting the pavement in a way that’s disturbingly loud, given the blanket of silence around them as the sun goes down. Speed over caution at this point, Draco supposes. Potter releases him and hops over a small border, and Draco follows, finding his own footing and picking over some hilly, grassy terrain, gaze glued to Potter’s tense back until the loom of trees ahead thickens. A forest, wide, dirt pathways strewn with fallen leaves from the towering beech trees surrounding it. It’s much darker here, the twilight weak through the cover of branches, but Potter says, “Reach into the left pocket of my jacket,” and when Draco does and pulls out a short, rounded Muggle device, Potter takes it from him and clicks a button, lighting their way. He veers off the path, skirting around a small boulder, every few minutes slowing to glance at Draco as though concerned he might not keep up, and stopping finally when they come across a thicket of tall hedges with a small clearing between.

“This ought to do,” he mutters, sounding satisfied, though to Draco’s eye, it seems an awful place to sleep. He hands the Muggle lighting device back to Draco. “Hold the torch, yeah?”

Draco points it where Potter gestures. Potter kneels in the dirt, removes several items from his pack one-handed, and pulls out a bulky, wrapped item. Bewildered, Draco takes a look around the dark forest as Potter shakes the thing, whipping his head back around when what Potter’s holding pops out into something bigger, as if extended with a charm. It’s peaked at the top, rounded at each end, and longer than it is wide. Potter replaces the items he’d taken from his bag, glances at Draco’s face, and snorts.

“It’s a tent.”

“If you say so,” Draco says, dubious as to how they’re both supposed to fit in there without magic. Potter snorts again, unzips an entrance from one side of the tent, and tosses his pack inside, pausing on his knee and one hand as he starts to crawl inside. “C’mon.”

With a last look at the forest, Draco crawls in after him. He sucks in a breath as Potter reaches over his shoulder to drag the zipper of the entrance up, closing them off from the outside. Potter draws away, pulling the lamp from their bag and turning it on. Draco has the urge to express disappointment that the space inside matches the outside, but it’s a petty inclination based more on nerves than any real discontent, and he represses it. At least it’s shelter. And it is actually a little bigger than it seems; sitting in the middle, the top of Draco’s head brushes the top, and it’s nearly wide enough to fit both of them on their backs as long as neither of them get any ideas about rolling over in their sleep. Length-wise, it’s going to leave little room for moving around once they’re lying down, but it’s not too bad. Except—

“How are we to get out if they find us here?” he blurts.

Potter hesitates in the act of taking off his jacket, lips thinning. He slips a hand in his right pocket and pulls out a small, leather bag. “The fabric surrounding us will prevent skin contact long enough for us to take these,” he says, wrangling open the drawstring cord that holds the bag closed. “They won’t be useful in a fight, and need to be saved for an emergency _only_ , so don’t be getting any ideas, but—” He tips the opening of the bag in Draco’s direction, revealing a handful of Muffling beads, and it’s Draco’s turn to snort.

“I know,” he says, taking the bag. He tips them out into his palm to count them; how Potter’s had these and managed not to use them for little things, he’ll never know. He pours them back in and tightens the cord. “I developed them.”

“You— Are you allowed to tell me that?”

Draco blinks. “I suppose so.” He hadn’t even thought about it, though if the magic Silencing him about the work they did on Nine was still in effect, there's a very real chance he would have choked to death. “I’m a developer of magical instruments and objects, specialising in configuring common spells to suit the undercover needs of the black ops and special forces teams. My team has made half of the defensive mystical items that your group have been so fond of using the last five years.”

"Oh. Yeah. I… I saw some of your designs, actually. In your bag. Interesting," Potter says. It sounds like a genuine compliment, though he can't seem to help following it up with, "But for what it's worth, I don't think there's an Auror alive who'd prefer the Floo over Apparition. Too easy to get trapped in one without powder." 

"Yes, and of course none of us are smart enough to have thought of that," Draco scoffs. Potter's lips twitch with a small, acknowledging smile, and Draco smirks in response. "That was just a theory I'd been working on, a way to customise all existing Floos with an Auror's magical signature. It'd mean no green flare to warn the person on the other end, no wards to contend with." 

Potter frowns, but looks interested despite himself. "Could you do that _now_?" he asks. "Make them work for us that way?"

Draco blows out a breath, reminded when for a moment he'd almost managed to feel normal. He pushes aside his resentment. Shakes his head. "We'd need tremendous magical power to draw from, and no two or dozen wizards are that powerful, I don't care who they are," he says pointedly. " _Maybe_ , if the very atmosphere wasn't draining magic and I was in my lab at the Ministry, and a hundred other hurdles had been cleared… But no. Not like this." 

"Right. Yeah." Potter looks down at the bag. Closes his fist around it and stuffs it back into his pocket. He nods, almost to himself. “Well, it's good you know how to take these, though. I wouldn’t suggest Apparating with them—”

“I’d hope not.”

“—but it can be done,” Potter says. He fans the fingers of his left hand where it’s held against his stomach, displaying the four injured fingers Draco hasn’t wanted to ask about, and Draco lets out a slow breath. 

“That’s how we’re meant to get out of here if we get trapped?”

“Yeah.”

There are so many things that could go wrong with this scenario, and it’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to say so. But he’s not unaware that he’s indebted to Potter — yet again — so he refrains from commenting a second time and only says, “If we take two each, there’s a three-second punch of magic after swallowing that might mitigate some of the risk. It won’t get us far, though.”

“Good to know.” Potter removes his jacket and bunches it up, setting it down where Draco guesses their heads will lay. He starts sorting through his bag, shifting so he’s on his bottom with his legs crossed. Without looking at Draco, he says, “I’ve got your wand in my jacket. Shrunken. If we come across any on the way, I think you should—”

“No.” It just slips out, but so vehemently, Draco startles himself. 

“I’m not asking you to do any fighting,” Potter says with a sigh. “I’m far better trained for combat; I know that.”

“Are you—” Draco stares at him, offence and disbelief warring with each other. “Are you under the impression I didn’t fight because I was _scared_?”

Potter frowns and looks up. His eyes are weary. “I know you’re a talented duellist,” he says evenly. "Being an Unspeakable attests to how gifted you must be as a wizard, god, at least to that much. And what I know of you from… before. But. Well, yes. Not of fighting or dying, or even of turning into one of those things. Just...”

And Draco can’t even argue with that. He can’t deny the way his muscles froze when confronted with that young woman, the memories that blinded him in the face of oncoming danger. It’s been bloody _weeks_ , and he can’t get it out of his head for longer than a brief stretch. Doesn’t ever expect to be able to. But neither will he let himself be dead weight.

“I’m a liability to you and I’d rather not be,” he says.

“Yeah.” Potter’s gaze locks with his. He tilts his head, one corner of his mouth quirking up wryly. “But you’re necessary, too. Somehow, you are. So liability or not, I can’t risk something happening to you. I’d prefer to do the fighting, if it comes to that.”

It’s either Potter’s incredibly kind way of saving Draco’s pride — which he seems to understand is prickling fiercely — or a complete disregard for Draco’s desire to be useful. Potter resumes the laborious, one-handed picking through of his bag, and Draco’s jaw grows tight. He grabs the bag from Potter’s lap. 

“Tell me what you need.”

There’s a heavy silence. Then: “There’s a blanket in there, near the bottom, I think, and a small white bottle. And get out the food, whatever you think you’ll be able to eat, and the can opener, too. Use my wand to Unshrink everything. Take a drink while you’re at it.”

Draco sets himself to task, finding each item with relative ease, considering how many things Potter’s got stuffed in there. It occurs to him that he’s left his files back at the hotel, his diary. Not that they’d be of any use. They’re already carrying far more than they probably should. His own bag is packed to the brim with his clothing and other personal items, and he decides to discard several of them in the morning before they head on; they can disburse Potter’s bag more evenly to share the load. 

He Unshrinks everything and starts to close Potter’s bag, but Potter shakes his head and says, “Leave it open,” so Draco sets it near the door at the foot of the tent, and takes a long drink, stomach settling a bit at its reintroduction to fluids as Potter twists the cap of the small bottle and thumbs it open. He passes over two white tablets and says, “Take those, too. They’ll help.”

“What are they?” Draco asks. He puts them into his mouth, wincing when the bitterness hits his tongue, and downs a bit more water. Potter bares his teeth in a weird grin to show off the four tabs he’s got between them. He takes his wand from Draco’s hand and tosses his head back. The tablets disappear into his mouth and he swallows some water, continuing to drink long after the tablets have gone down. He wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist. “Muggle pain killers. They reduce swelling and fever, get rid of muscle and headaches, that sort of thing. They’re not as long lasting or comprehensive as potions, but they do in a pinch.” 

Thank fuck. Draco’s headache has intensified since he lost the contents of his stomach. He takes the bottle from where Potter’s rested it between them and shakes out an extra tablet, swallowing it dry despite the taste; he hopes they work quickly. He takes the tins and opens them they way he’s seen Potter do over the last few days. “Can I heat them?”

“Should be fine if you don’t make them hot.” 

It’s soup again, tomato in one tin and something with lentils in the other. Draco warms them with a careful swish of Potter’s wand and takes the one with lentils when Potter reaches for the tomato soup. It’s a decent-enough meal — Draco’s yet not done marvelling at having food available again whenever he needs — and goes down with an easy, the tin empty in minutes. Potter seems equally hungry, finishing his soup seconds before Draco, and it’s no wonder considering how far they walked. Draco opens a packet of Cream crackers and they use their fingers to smear peanut butter over the tops, too eager to be fussed by the bounds of sanitation or etiquette. When the sleeve is empty, Draco takes another drink from Potter’s wand, opens a package of Rich Tea biscuits, and sets it between them. He stretches out on his elbow with a sigh, eating one.

“Because heat can be considered an offensive tactic?” he asks.

Potter seems to have no trouble following his train of thought. “That’s what I think. Freezing charms are useless too, and attract them to an equal degree.” He munches on his own biscuit and pulls out another two, his face finally relaxing to a perceptible degree. “Healing charms, Glamouring charms, anything that can hide us from them…” He looks at the wall of the tent for a moment, voice stifled. “I’ve seen them all used with negative results,” he says, then clears his throat. “Small things are okay. Scouring charms and the like. They don’t seem to even notice _Lumos_ unless it wavers. _Aguamenti_ , obviously. Mostly I think it’s us. You start to…”

“I do what?” 

“Just in general, I mean. All of us.” Potter shakes his head. “I was forcefully repressing my magic by the third day, and that helped. You’re doing it too. Aren’t you?”

Draco opens his mouth to agree, but a simple ‘yes’ won’t satisfy, won’t explain his revulsion at the thought of fully releasing his magic, nor the longing he feels to do so. Not without telling Potter how their broom ride had felt, how those moments before his magic, forcefully pushed into Potter, had begun to drain. He’s never liked the act of lending his magic, an exercise overwhelming to the most highly trained Unspeakable and only rarely done. There’s usually far too much friction, but with Potter, there'd been something… _intoxicating_ about it, which was unsettling in its own way, both in their affinity, and in reminder of everything else. 

“Malfoy?” Potter nudges his knee. He looks perplexed, then concerned. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Draco says. Potter’s eyes clear. He nods for Draco to go on and Draco sighs. “It wasn’t something I made the conscious decision to do, but…”

“It’s almost second-nature now.”

Draco nods at the truth of it. Magic has been intrinsic to his sense of self for the majority of his life, and now he's set it aside in favour of survival. 

“What’s funny?” Potter asks, brushing crumbs from his fingertips.

“Hm?”

“You’ve got a look on your face.”

“No, I don’t.” Except Draco can feel he does, a little smirk that’s likely both ugly and smug. He schools his expression and wonders what Potter would say if he said, _I was raised to believe dying would be preferable to turning Squib._ But there’s no point in picking that argument, not now when things are going as well as they can. 

Now that they’re out of the room, Potter seems to have expanded somehow, the caged tension prowling inside him let loose. It suits him, Draco’s surprised to notice. Being stuck in a tiny tent in the middle of nature, chin smudged with ash, sweaty hair drying in ridiculous curls, a rust-toned streak of soup near the corner of his lip. It makes Draco feel strange, separating Potter from the situation they’re in like that — guilty, somehow. 

He sits up, pushing it out of his mind. “It’s nothing; I was just thinking about my father.”

“What about him?”

Draco shoots him a glare. “Nothing, I said. I’m tired. Let me check your arm.”

Potter narrows his eyes but scoots a little closer, pliant as Draco pulls off the sling. Draco stares at him for a second, considering. “Can you get your shirt off? I’d like to wrap your shoulder by itself.”

“I don’t want to have to take it on and off every night to get dressed,” Potter says, glancing down at his shoulder. “It’s better if I can keep it as stationary as possible while it heals.”

“Right, but if I can wrap it,” Draco slips Potter’s t-shirt up his torso and holds the side out so Potter can work his good arm out, though Potter rolls his eyes as he does it, “under the shirt, we can put it back on and brace it when you’re clothed. Then you’ll only have to remove your shirt for bathing and such.”

“Yeah, we’re going to have so many opportunities to bathe, I’m sure,” Potter scoffs, and then his face suddenly goes still. Watchful. “What is it?”

What it _is_ is that Draco’s attempt to escape from the awkwardness of his own thoughts has dumped him directly into thoughts where his body feels the need to participate. Which is decidedly inconvenient, especially considering the guilt that still accompanies it, quadrupling as Draco hesitates. He shakes his head, busying himself with smoothing out the length of elastic fabric and searching through Potter’s bag for another, Potter’s body too exposed to Draco’s gaze. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen it, not as if he hasn’t slept next to it. That Potter’s training has blessed him with a lean, hard chest and lightly sculpted shoulders, that Potter’s stomach is taut with a trail of dark hair into his joggers, that his body is well-formed and pleasing to look upon, comes as no great shock. And it’s no new thing to be aware that Potter’s attractive, either. But it’s always been an abstract sort of knowledge, Draco’s jealousy of him in school obscuring anything deeper, his determination to move on afterward allowing for no room to examine any fleeting considerations he might have had. 

“ _You **knew**_ ,” she says gleefully in his ear. 

Draco flinches away from her voice. “It’s nothing,” he says again, hoarsely. He nods at Potter’s shoulder. “Lift your arm up with your other hand.” 

Potter’s chin is set at a stubborn angle, his nostrils flaring slightly like he’s scenting her in the tent with them, but he complies and doesn’t say anything. Pathetically relieved, Draco makes short work of padding and taping Potter’s shoulder, then fits Potter into a clean t-shirt and slings his arm again. 

“Grab my jeans, can you?” Potter asks. He toes off each of his boots to bare his feet, wiggling his toes with a groan. Draco scowls and casts a pointed freshening charm before grabbing Potter’s jeans, and Potter gives a huff of amusement. “I’m sure yours are no better.”

“I put socks on,” Draco says, prying off his trainers as evidence. 

“Yeah, not putting on socks as Inferi were trying to break down our door was a choice I made just to annoy you,” Potter says. He squirms out of his joggers and empties the pockets, then slides his jeans up his legs with some difficulty, frustration tight on his brow when he can’t pull them up with both hands. Draco sighs and jerks his chin, then yanks the jeans up around Potter’s boxers when Potter lays back and lifts his hips off the ground, pulling his hands away as soon as they’re on. Potter wiggles a little and makes an approving sound. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

“Don’t expect me to do them up for you,” Draco mutters, face hot. Potter snorts and Draco turns to hunt through his own bag to find his extra set of joggers. He removes the ones he’s wearing and tosses them over Potter’s, then slips the clean ones on and tightens the cord around his waist. His t-shirt is a little pungent after the distance they covered, but he’s only got one other, and he’d prefer to keep that in reserve until they’ve got set up properly, so he can clean their dirty items. He starts pulling and cataloguing things from his bag. 

“It’ll be easier tomorrow,” Potter says, the words followed by a small grunt and the snap of the button on his jeans, the hiss of his zip. “We’ll start scouting for a good place to make camp well before the sun goes down, have a bit of time to get everything in place so we can be more comfortable.”

“Trying to make sure I won’t give this place a one-quill review in _Wizard’s Traveller_?” Draco asks. He pushes his cologne and conditioner to the corner of the tent, freeing some space. “Don’t worry, the lively daily entertainment and activities you offer are sure to balance it out.”

Potter chuckles. Draco flicks him a glance to see him curl his good arm under his head, now resting on half of his jacket. He's pulled his glasses off and his are eyes fixed on the roof of the tent. “Full-service proprietor, that’s me.” His smile dims as Draco watches him, amusement bleeding into a stony sort of expression that has Draco turning back to his things. Potter says, “I might like a quiet life like that.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Draco says. “You wouldn’t be able to tolerate it.”

“No.” Potter shifts a little. “Probably not now.”

He sounds a little… off. Draco turns to study him again. Potter’s eyes are closed, his forehead smooth but for the slashes of his scar, his mouth in repose. But there’s something about the way Potter’s words slip through Draco’s mind again that bring on a stab of pity. He feels ridiculous, the end so bloody nigh, to sympathise with Potter over any dreams he may have had and lost. Merlin knows Draco’s never had the most comforting of natures, except occasionally with—

“We should sleep,” Potter says.

“I’m not sure I can,” Draco admits. Still, rest is probably wise, so Draco quickly finishes shuffling things around in their bags into some semblance of order, should they need to leave in a hurry. Potter turns off the lamp as Draco lies down on his back, drawing the blanket up over them. 

“It’s the adrenaline,” Potter says, his face nothing but a dark silhouette against a dark background. “You’ll get used to listening to your body’s demands. Soon enough that’ll be second nature as well.”

“Ninth or tenth, more likely; apparently I’ve got so many of them,” Draco says, not caring if he sounds bitter. 

“We all do, Malfoy. We just don’t like to admit it, because that would mean acknowledging what they’re for,” Potter murmurs. A birdcall sounds from nearby and they both fall quiet to listen to it. 

“What are they for?” Draco finally asks.

Potter hesitates. “Survival, usually. Of one kind or another.” He breathes quietly, then scoots over to edge a little more of his bundled jacket-pillow towards Draco. “G’night, Malfoy.”

“If that’s what we’re calling them, these days,” Draco says. He closes his eyes.

* * *

There are very few left alive who are still aware that Narcissa’s Sorting took a full twenty seconds. Andromeda’s took a mere three; Bella’s barely took place at all, that ridiculously smug Hat declaring her a Slytherin even before it was placed onto her dark, boisterous curls... or so the stories went. But to this day Narcissa can, with painful clarity, recall the humiliation of those twenty seconds. Can recall the look of concern on Andromeda’s face, the displeasure on Bella’s, as the Hat debated between three Houses, putting her at risk for a Hatstall.

 _You have a fine mind_ , it whispered in her ear as though tempting her, _which desires answers to all of your questions; you would make a splendid Ravenclaw._

Narcissa kept her smile on, vapid and expectant, and thought of the hexes her sister had designed for those who forgot to pull their heads out of their books, forgot to look over their shoulders. _Easy target practice_ , Bella called them. 

_Mmm, that was swift. Perhaps I overestimated the Gryffindor in you; there’s quite a bit of courage too — usually. And a desire for adventure, to stretch your wings._

_I’m a Slytherin,_ she told it, though Gryffindor was preferable to the other. Her cheeks were beginning to hurt from holding her smile in place. _We both know I am._

_Spoken as stubbornly as any Gryffindor I’ve ever heard._

_Place me there and I shall get my father to ban you from ever Sorting again._

_Ah yes, there it is. I did sense a sliver of it to begin with, but,_ the Hat hummed softly, I can see it better now. You do not always follow the rules so much as make them follow you.

_Precisely_ , she thought with all the self-assurance of a pureblood witch who’d been taught from the cradle what her place in the world should be. Then added, because being well-mannered was also important, _If you please?_

“Slytherin!”

She ended up telling her father regardless, and Bella as well, saying that the Hat hadn’t spoken at all, and asking if it wasn’t perhaps time they retired the thing? It seemed a quite Slytherin way of avoiding repercussions for the delay and she congratulated herself on it until Andromeda caught her complaining to Bella for the third time and gave her a look of such pained disapproval Narcissa had to look away.

Later, during their courting, she related the story to Lucius when it came up, and softened the details a little. “It said I would make a wonderful Slytherin, but then fell silent for a time. I think perhaps it was getting a little old; my father made sure they renewed the charms on it.”

“Lucky for me it spoke, I suppose,” he said, clasping her hand and stopping just under a tree filled with blossoms that were beginning to drift from its branches. He hesitated for only a moment before pressing a tentative kiss to the skin just under her ear. It was wildly improper on only their second unchaperoned outing, but Narcissa felt the kiss like a rush of heat that skittered all the way down her spine. She hadn’t thought a thing about tipping her chin up to accept his next kiss, on her mouth. 

When he pulled away, he murmured, “That was rather brave of you, Narcissa,” and he was smiling, an intrigued quirk to his brow that questioned the truth to her story. But he never questioned it aloud, and thirty-four years later, she still loves him for it. For so many things: his stalwart loyalty, however misplaced it could occasionally be, his sense of self, his trust in her, his faithfulness, so different from so many pureblood husbands in their social circle. And for Draco.

Always for Draco. 

Her first pregnancy had ended in a stillbirth that left her unable to speak without weeping for weeks, a little girl with a head of silvery curls. Her next two, second-term miscarriages that had scarred her internally. It took a full year before Lucius would even bed her again, for fear of losing her in childbirth. Even then, he insisted that they take contraceptive potions, going as far as to claim that the Malfoy line was not so important as her life. Indeed, the only fights they ever had before Draco was born were about that. He only gave in when he came upon her in the attics one afternoon in October, their fourth year wed, holding the Black family Christening gown and crying because it might never be worn again. He’d held her, kissed her, and said, “Once more, but you must promise me that if this doesn’t work out—”

“I promise,” she told him breathlessly, new tears streaking down her cheeks as she pulled him to her. And then his mouth was on hers again, his hands stroking her hair free of its pins, his body covering hers, warm and heavy. He made love to her on the floor of the attic, the air musty and somehow alive around them as she reached to undo his trousers with trembling fingers and he hiked up her robes around her waist, spreading her slender thighs with one hand and fitting his hips between them. 

Marital relations had been lovely with him from the start, but in the years since they’d been wed, it had never been like that — she hadn’t _known_ it could be like that. Lucius had always been so careful with her, so considerate, before, ensuring she reached her pleasure before he took his. But that day her arousal came to her not as a slow build, a sweep of crescendoing music; it came as the ocean does, calm one moment and tumultuous the next. She had been frantic for him, bursting with love for his concession despite his fear, for his courage. He let her press his back to the floor, let her roll astride him, a reversal of how proper wives ought to behave, and she rode him with sharp, hungry rocks of her hips until they were both covered with sweat, until they both broke like the waves did on the shore. 

That day changed everything for them — to the point where she wondered, occasionally, how deeply she could have possibly loved him before it. And almost nine months later, things changed again, securing her love for him further when she saw the tender look in his eyes as he held their son for the first time. 

“I’m starting to wonder if you actually have a care for Draco’s life, anymore,” Ms Granger says, staring at her. 

Narcissa manages not to react. It’s an insult, the statement, but it’s not the first of Ms Granger’s attempts to get her to speak, and Narcissa knows it won’t be the last. She cannot afford to show emotion, no matter how strongly it’s felt, not at this stage. It’s the first time Granger’s visited twice in one day, and that she’s now using Draco as a tactic simply shows her desperation. If Narcissa could help the sympathy she felt over what she’d been witness to before arriving here, she might even perhaps feel smug over the esteemed, first Mudblood headmistress of Hogwarts needing her so badly. 

But Narcissa knows when to speak, and when to hold her tongue. By all accounts, Granger is a brilliant witch; she’ll figure out the necessity of negotiation soon enough. Narcissa allows her lips to curve up just a little more, as vacant and expectant as the day she was Sorted. She spots a flash of colour behind the curtain and blandly turns her gaze from it.

Granger sighs. She leans forward in the chair at Narcissa’s bedside and says, with more relish than her expression implies, “He’s with Harry, you know. In Paris.” Her mouth twists, from one angle cruel, from another, considering. “I do so hope they got out.”

Narcissa feels the words like a lash whip across her cheek, which twitches — just once. Even in the medical wing, she’s heard whispers of something disastrous taking place in Paris that morning. No one knows what or where the rumours are coming from, and it’s not as if she can ask. But the one thing Narcissa’s been able to convince herself of is Draco’s safety. There is no world in which she is safe and he is not, that is not even worthy of contemplation. 

As though Granger can see the questions fighting for space on Narcissa’s tongue, she smiles and sits back once more. Studies her fingernails. Narcissa ruthlessly controls the base instinct to scratch her eyes out. 

“Of course if they _did_ get out…” Granger trails off, an unconcerned lilt to her voice, and glances up at Narcissa through her lashes. Her smile grows a little. “Well, Harry is very loyal to me. As I’m sure you know.”

Ten years ago, Narcissa saw Harry Potter walk into a clearing in a cold, dark forest to stand before the Dark Lord. He'd been barely more than a boy, then, younger still than her own son, but ready to do his duty. A willing sacrifice to save those he loved. Remembering that, Granger’s implication should not sound like the threat it is, though Narcissa's been anticipating something along those lines. It should not send a slither of terror down her spine. Potter is noble to the point of his own death, that much she’s sure of. He would never…

He wouldn’t.

Still, Narcissa’s hands ball up of their own accord. She forces herself to keep Granger’s gaze as Granger rises from her chair and sighs.

“It’s something to consider,” Granger says lightly. She waits a beat, and then turns and strides out of the curtain shrouding Narcissa from full view. 

Narcissa draws in a long, steadying breath. She was unconscious for over a week, and broke her voice screaming before that. Broke both of her pinkies as well, beating on the walls of a Manor that wouldn’t let her out before those things finally breached the wards, her magic useless for the first time in her life. She flexes her hands now, just because she can, and clears her throat.

“You may as well come out. I see you,” she says. Her voice is husky, but it will even out in time. She takes a sip of the tepid water at her bedside and waits.

A moment later, a little girl of perhaps six peeks around the curtain, familiar carrot-red frizz slipping free from its braid. She’s a pretty little thing with wide blue eyes, and even if her heart-shaped face wasn’t a miniature replica of Hermione Granger’s, Narcissa would have had her pegged as a Weasley in a bare second. 

“Will you come join me?” she inquires gently. She pats her bedside. The girl blinks, clearly having expected admonishment rather than invitation. “My name is Narcissa,” she says, giving her a conspiratorial smile, “but my friends call me Cissy.”

“I’m… Rose,” the girl says. She takes a few, halting steps closer before stopping, a worried frown caught on her face. “I just wanted to—”

“Visit? How kind,” Narcissa says. She slides over a little on her narrow bed and gestures to the bread pudding she still has on her plate from supper. “Would you like this while you keep me company? I must admit, it’s rather lonely in here. I’d so love to hear news of what’s going on outside.”

“My mum—” Rose says, then pauses. She looks at the dessert. “I’m not really supposed to be here.”

“Then we shall do our very best to make sure no one finds out, won’t we?” Narcissa says. Rose searches her eyes, her own hesitation melting away with the dawning of her bright smile. She comes forward and takes Narcissa’s hand, climbing onto the side of the bed with ease. Narcissa pushes the tray toward her.

“I love bread pudding,” Rose says. She glances around and finds Narcissa’s napkin, using it to wipe down the clean fork Narcissa hands her, before placing the napkin in her lap. Narcissa raises her eyebrows, impressed. She’s perhaps given Granger too little credit.

“I thought you might,” Narcissa says as Rose begins eating. She pets the top of Rose’s hair. “My son does, too.”

“What else does he like?” Rose asks after she swallows her bite. “What’s his name? How do you know my mum? Do you know my dad? What about my uncle Harry?”

Narcissa laughs lightly. “I think everyone knows your uncle Harry,” she says, and Rose grins. Narcissa continues, “I could tell you scores of stories about my son, and I will if you’re interested. But can you tell me what’s happening outside of here? Tell me about yourself and your family and, oh, things. Everything. I’m not permitted to leave yet, you see, and it’s,” she pushes her lower lip out with a dramatic sigh, much to Rose’s delight, “so _dull._ ”

Rose giggles, and tucks into the dessert, talking between bites. Narcissa listens patiently; she’s always known how to charm information out of children — it’s a skill she utilised often before Draco got to Hogwarts — and growing up with a sister like Bella, she learned at a young age not to underestimate them either; this one could be incredibly useful to her. In a multitude of ways.

Narcissa _was_ ultimately placed in Slytherin, after all.


	6. Chapter Five: Proverbs 12:18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone, I meant to have this chapter posted early this morning as usual but I've had a bit of a ~ _week_ and I got a bit distracted. lol. 
> 
> **Trigger warning for this chapter: Brief reference to a prior moment of suicidal ideation.**

Harry wakes up uncomfortable, each of his muscles stiff and protesting when he tries to roll over — though not nearly as badly as the first morning they’d woken up on the forest floor. Unlike then, he’s not impeded by Malfoy in his standard sleeping pose, knees crooked like a child. They’re unfolded now, one of his arms flung across Harry’s waist. Harry’s turn drapes Malfoy’s calf further over the outside of his leg. 

He fumbles for his glasses, debating for a moment whether to wake him. Malfoy’d slept well despite his protests that first night out of the room, but since then he's gone back to the status quo, shifting uncomfortably well into the night before dropping off, waking up more than once, gasping. He usually gets back to sleep, and far more soundly, sometime in the predawn hours, but Harry doesn’t envy Malfoy’s lack of rest, nor the pain he’s suffered upon getting up. Rigorous exercises are no real substitute for a long day of travel on foot, and if Harry’s still feeling it just a few days in, Malfoy’ll likely be in agony until he becomes accustomed. Harry decides to leave him for now; he could use a bit of space to clear his own head, and anyway, he needs to have a piss.

As if aware of Harry’s intentions to go, Malfoy snuffles in his sleep and curls closer, long limbs sleep-heavy and warm. Under the scent of sweat near his jaw, Harry can detect the smell of Malfoy’s cologne, clean and masculine with vague notes of cedar. He stills, letting out a soft breath when his morning erection grazes Malfoy’s thigh and throbs a little. It doesn’t help that he’s not the only one who’s gone stiff in a variety of ways; he can feel Malfoy’s cock, long and firm, pushing against his hip. He looks down between them to see the obscene tent of it against the fabric of is joggers. When he looks back up, Malfoy’s eyes are open and on Harry, sleepy-soft, the expression on his face unreadable. He closes them again with another snuffle and rolls onto his back, taking his arm and leg with him and saving Harry the worry of how to extricate himself. Harry waits for a moment to be sure he’s fast asleep, then sits up and crawls from the tent as quietly as possible, their bags in tow. 

The sun’s not quite up, but a look at Harry’s watch and the pale streaks of grey he can see through the trees indicate it won’t be too long now. Setting their bags aside, Harry circles the hedges on the opposite side of the path, glances around, and manages to get his jeans open, one-handed. After peeing and uncomfortably shaking off, he’s tempted to do more, cock still firm and heavy in his grip. He can't remember the last time he had a wank, even just for the release, and he hasn’t been able to shake the memory of the blush that had spread over Malfoy’s face, the way his eyes had glinted in the dim lamplight a few nights prior as he’d helped Harry out of his shirt, gaze flicking over Harry’s bare torso. It had been as unabashed a checking-out as Harry’d ever experienced, which was saying something — at least until Malfoy had thought whatever it was that had made him draw away so profoundly. With a little sigh of regret, Harry tucks his cock away and closes his jeans. 

He doesn’t blame Malfoy. Harry isn't sure how to feel about it, either. In the best of times, Malfoy’s more closely resembled a rock in his shoe than he ever did an opportunity. Attracted to him or not, if indeed Malfoy even leans that way, Harry should probably nip any inclination he has towards Malfoy before it really starts; it should be easy to.

Harry makes his way back to camp, bare feet cold against the dewy ground. The tent is quiet, peaceful. For a strangely sad moment, it feels like everything is. 

Pushing his melancholy aside with a breath, Harry tugs on a pair of socks and his boots, awkwardly ties the laces, then sits back and watches the weak seep of dawn through the tree cover. They got a late start yesterday, both still so exhausted from their abrupt departure and escape from Paris. To say nothing of the distance they’ve covered — at once a lot, for people who'd been trapped together for days, and nowhere near what Harry had hoped. He's not entirely unrealistic; any trained human body should be able to cross nearly fifty kilometres a day at a walk, and he knows that from experience. But he didn't account for how their level of injury and the general soreness they’d experience might force them to take it easy, even going until sundown each day, navigating slowly through the forest off the beaten path. 

They’ll make better time today, be able to pick up the pace a bit, Harry thinks. His instincts haven’t let him down yet, at least, and he feels fairly confident about their relative safety. They might even have a chance to stop and clean off some of the grime they’ve accumulated — the map shows a lake near where Harry hopes to break later in the day. 

That thought in mind, Harry grabs their bags. They’ve not had a chance to have something hot yet and he’s been looking forward to using the camp stove, the mini-kettle. He’s not quite sure how to feel that Malfoy’s placed the heavier items in his own bag, thus sparing the extra weight on Harry’s shoulder, but he takes a moment to admire Malfoy’s organisational setup nonetheless, everything in easy-to-access order. Merlin, no wonder he went into the Department of Mysteries. 

Humming, Harry pulls out everything he’ll need and gets started, and makes a mental note to look for game as they go. Some fresh protein would be sorely appreciated at this point. Until then, they’ll just have to get creative. 

He makes short work of breakfast, the kettle and the little pot that came with the stove hot in no time. He sniffs the steam rising from it appreciatively as he cleans out the empty tins he’s held onto for this very moment, and is reaching for the kettle when a soft shout comes from the tent. He’s barely aware of the clatter of the tins falling to the ground, wand already brandished and heart pounding even as he falls to his knees and lifts the flap of the tent in time to see Malfoy’s panicked body go still, his face bleached of all colour. Malfoy’s sat up, their blanket gripped tight in his fists, the wildness of his eyes fading slowly, and Harry hesitates, not sure what to say. 

“Potter,” Malfoy gets out shakily. “You were… Our bags—” He attempts a laugh and Harry winces.

“Dream?” Harry asks. Malfoy gives him a reluctant half-shake of the head and scrapes a hand through his hair, his face reflecting a dry sort of bemusement. Harry exhales out his tension and heads inside, Malfoy pulling his legs up to make room. Harry settles onto his knees, evaluating him. “Not a dream, then. What happened?”

Malfoy swallows hard, lips thinning. “A— a dream, yes. But then I woke up and—”

Harry stares at him, Malfoy’s panicked shout and bewildered _You were..._ tripping through his mind. “I was gone. Our things were gone.”

“It’s…” Malfoy turns a veiled gaze on him. “It’s fine. But it’s not wise to go off without letting the other one know,” he says. “Especially with our resources. I know you’ve got some _idea_ ,” he sneers slightly at the word, “that I’m not particularly capable in a fight, but we still shouldn’t— If you’re dealing with the— I should be able to—”

“I just had to piss,” Harry breaks in, a disagreeable tumble forming in his gut. He returns Malfoy’s flat sniff with a frown. “All of our things were right outside, and I was within calling distance. Besides, you can’t even bring yourself to _Reparifarge_ your wand, let alone use it as it is.” 

Malfoy’s complexion turns positively chalky and Harry bites back a curse, closing his eyes and reaching for patience. He’s never been able to curb his words when he’s frustrated, and being chastened — even rightly so — has always had the regrettable effect of loosening his tongue. His stubborn impulsivity has got him trouble at work on too many occasions, into fights with Ron and Hermione, into dangerous situations in the field. Those things he knows how to deal with; what's harder is the ugly pit of regret that forms when he has to confront the consequences of his temper.

“Fine,” Malfoy grinds out. Harry opens his eyes to find Malfoy’s trembling hand outstretched, palm up. Malfoy twitches two fingers. “Give it here, then. If it’ll shut you up. If anything will.”

Harry looks from Malfoy’s hand to his face and back, every petty impulse in him fading to background noise. Malfoy’s expression is stony, but the tendons of his throat are standing out, and though he’s obviously trying to steady his hand, it’s not quite working. Harry shakes his head. “Look—”

“No, _you_ look,” Malfoy says, banked fury in every word. “You came and found _me_ , Potter. Out of the goodness of your heart, your heroic tendencies? I think not. It's because you fucking _need_ me, don’t you? You and Granger and what’s left of my department, and don’t think I’m not grateful to get out of the hotel alive, but you’ve gone thick in the head if you think that you’re not just as accountable to me as I am to you on this trip. You think you’d have got off the balcony without me? Or—”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

Harry’s admission makes Malfoy falter for a second, but then he flicks his fingers again. “Give me my damn wand.”

“Come out of here,” Harry says with a long sigh. One of these days, he’s going to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut. His shoulder gives a throb not unlike the one in his chest when he looks at the defensive stoicism on Malfoy’s face. Malfoy looks about to reiterate his demand, and Harry shakes his head again. “Come on. Put on your shoes; I’ve made breakfast and we need to get going soon. Plus,” he adds quickly, “I need your expertise on something.”

Malfoy blinks, the high arch of his forehead creasing. “On what?”

Harry gazes at him and finally shrugs; he’s got no bloody clue how to answer, but he’ll think something up. “Let’s eat first and get everything packed away.”

Malfoy narrows his eyes but gives a stiff nod after a moment, then jerks his chin toward the tent flap. Harry backs out of it, inhaling deeply when the flap falls shut. He listens to the shuffle of movement behind the canvas before pushing up from the ground, brushing the dirt from the knees of his jeans, and makes his way back to the stove. As he stirs the porridge, Ron’s face comes to him, flushed and irritated from an argument that had erupted five years prior, after Harry’d gone off on his own and wound up in St Mungo’s with a shattered femur. _You’re not always right, Harry, and you’re not responsible for everything. But even if you were, that wouldn’t give you any excuse for being such a dick. You’ve got people to depend on too, y’know._

It’s as true now as it was then, but Harry has never been able to let himself rely on anyone the way he knows he can with Ron and Hermione, not even the members of his own team. He’s too used to taking point, the habit too deeply ingrained in him to allow for other people at the helm. And even Ron and Hermione are exceptions in only little ways: Ron with his practical use of logic, Hermione with her book knowledge. But for all intents and purposes, he and Malfoy are practically the only people left in the world — their world, at least. Whatever other issues Malfoy’s got going on in his head, feeling useless doesn’t need to be one of them. 

“Do I smell coffee?”

Harry starts, almost tipping the pot of porridge in his surprise. Malfoy’s standing disturbingly close to him, trainers on and hair brushed. The nearly invisible growth of stubble over his jaw that Harry only noticed a day ago is gone. Harry gestures to the stove, mouth dry. “I didn’t hear you.”

Malfoy smirks, a little meanly. “What a devoted protector of the helpless you are, Potter.”

Harry snorts; he can’t even begrudge the point. “I was thinking.” 

“About how your diet needs more fibre, I’m assuming, from the look on your face,” Malfoy says, one brow arched. 

Harry brushes it off. “And you’re not helpless.”

“He says it but does he realise how true it is?” Malfoy asks with a roll of his eyes, directing the question to the trees overhead. But when he glances at Harry again, some of his coolness has receded. He blows out a breath and says, “I asked you a question.”

“Ab— Oh. Yeah!” Harry waves to the kettle, which emits a light curl of steam. “Coffee. I hope you take it black.”

“I’ve been taking it as water imagined into coffee for weeks, so I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Malfoy takes a step closer to the stove, gaze flicking over it. “This is brilliant. Why haven’t you broken it out before?”

“We were in the room to start,” Harry says as he busies himself pouring the porridge and coffee into the empty tins. “Even with the windows open, I didn’t know how good the ventilation would be. I thought it best to stay under the radar. And since we left, I wanted to wait until we’d sufficiently cleared the area, until we hadn’t seen one for awhile.” He hands Malfoy the tin of coffee first, hiding the urge to smile when Malfoy takes it with obvious eagerness. Malfoy raises it to his mouth and blows on it, then drinks deeply with murmured groan. Harry looks away. 

“I meant to ask something about that,” Malfoy says as Harry takes a first tentative sip from his own tin. He’s fairly pleased with the result, even given that he generally likes his coffee with heavy doses of cream. Malfoy says his name and Harry drags his attention back. Malfoy purses his lips. “That one we saw…” He pauses to clear his throat. “On the road. She was alone.”

“Yeah.” Harry passes over Malfoy’s tin of porridge, hoping the dried cranberries he put in it have softened some under the heat. “And?”

“Well.” Malfoy lowers gingerly onto the ground and crosses his legs. “She was alone. Don’t they… gravitate toward each other?”

“In my experience,” Harry says, copying Malfoy’s pose. He considers what Malfoy’s asking and says, “I don’t… I don’t know. Why she was away from the others. It seemed like she came out of nowhere.” He remembers the way Malfoy had locked into place, as if unable to hear Harry’s order to get away, and the look on his face before he’d thrown up, like Malfoy’d had to pitch everything he’d just seen out of himself. Harry drains the rest of his coffee quickly and moves onto breakfast before his appetite dwindles.

“So…” The word lingers, a question and statement at once, though Harry has no idea what conclusion he’s come to. Malfoy’s eyes are distant, thoughtful, and he licks his lower lip, then takes it between his teeth. He turns his gaze to Harry. “So we have no real way of knowing that we won’t run into them, do we? At any given time,” he says, brow furrowing. “Even if we don’t hear a mob of them approach. There are really no guarantees, are there?”

Despite the worried frown Malfoy gives him, it feels a bit like an accusation. Harry bristles. “Prophecies are part of _your_ sect,” he says tightly. “All I can do is react as well as possible under the circumstances I’m given.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Finish your food,” Harry says, standing. “I’m going to break down camp.”

“Potter—”

“I left a protein bar out for you, too.” Harry turns away, studiously ignoring the baffled look on Malfoy’s face. He turns off the stove and, as it cools, clears the tent of their blanket and his jacket, then cleans out the pot and kettle as best he can with his wand. After a few minutes spent in silence, Malfoy excuses himself, presumably to go pee, and Harry ignores that as well. His shoulder is smarting terribly by the time he goes to fold up the tent, and a tap on his arm makes him grimace with the effort it takes not to say something he’d he'd have to apologise for later. He looks up to see Malfoy holding out three tablets of Paracetamol and shakes his head. “The ones I took last night should be the last. I can't use up our whole supply, we need to save them.”

“What are we saving them for,” Malfoy asks practically, with another pointed nudge against Harry’s arm, “if not something like that?” He waits, patient and stoic in an entirely different manner than earlier, and Harry reluctantly takes the pills, once again feeling like a child who’s been put in place. Malfoy glances around their space with a nod. “Rest it up for a minute while I put everything away.”

Harry doesn’t argue, dry-swallowing the pills and then settling back to watch Malfoy efficiently Shrink and pack the remainder of their things. He does it with short, economic movements, his magic carelessly graceful, expression as bland as Molly’s when she’s setting her kitchen to rights after a meal. The comparison shoots a pang of fear through Harry; he doesn’t even know if she’s alive. 

“Did your mum ever cook for you?” Harry asks impulsively. He immediately wants to bite his tongue, but Malfoy simply slants him a curious look and finishes buckling Harry’s pack before holding out a hand. Harry allows Malfoy to haul him to his feet, then takes the pack and slips the strap over his good shoulder. 

Malfoy lifts his own bag with a small grunt and slings it onto his back. He takes a breath, falling into step with Harry as they set off. “We had four kitchen elves.”

“So that’s a no?”

“No.” Malfoy darts another glance at him. He clears his throat. “She did. Not often. When I was sick as a boy, she’d occasionally make breakfast for me. Fried eggs on toast. On my eleventh birthday she baked my cake.”

“How was it?”

Malfoy pulls a face, but the chuckle that falls from his lips is warm and fond. “She was… ambitious,” he says diplomatically. His gaze, set on the path before them, goes a little distant. “She was also smart enough to have the elves bake something just in case.”

Harry takes in the slight smile pulling at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth and makes a guess. “You didn’t eat it, though. What the elves baked.”

“Of course not,” Malfoy says after a beat. He hikes his pack up a little higher, a sheepish splash of pink blooming in his cheeks. “I ate three slices of hers after lunch, and two more after supper.”

“Did you need fried eggs on toast the next morning?” Harry asks, feeling inexplicably soothed by the story. He smiles.

Malfoy looks at him and suddenly stumbles. He halts in place, blinking rapidly and muttering a curse under his breath, then shakes his head and huffs a light laugh. “She had them waiting when I woke up.”

* * *

The route Potter’s picked is arduous, side trails whenever possible and making their way through unmarked territory when not. Draco answers Potter’s questions about his childhood because doing so seems to dispel the foul mood they’d both been affixed with at camp, but he has a feeling that asking any questions of Potter might reverse the effect. He’s more than a little perturbed by their interactions. Though he hadn’t expected it to be easy — Potter’s always had a reputation for recalcitrance, and Draco’s pragmatic about his own contrary nature — at times it seems barely more than a recipe for disaster. Either way, whatever they’re doing seems to work, Potter asking him things, Draco answering. Potter’s laugh rings out once or twice before he remembers to curtail the sound, to keep his voice low, and he even reaches out to knock Draco with an amiable shove when Draco tells him the story of the dancing Crups and drunken peacocks.

The friction sparking between them fades, and sparks of something different ignite in Draco’s stomach. It's a fire not unlike the one he’d stifled when he’d woken up to see a matching burn in Potter’s gaze, their cocks hard and pressing against one another. He does what he can to ignore it, the way he’d done with the smile Potter’d graced him with earlier in the day, beautiful in its simplicity. It takes a bit of effort, and his words run dry; thankfully, Potter leaves him to his thoughts, and they lapse into a comfortable silence as they press onwards.

Midday has well come and gone by the time they break. Draco, by then in a numb sort of zen state of those thoughts looping around in his mind, is surprised when Potter brings up a hand to touch his wrist. He jerks away and Potter displays his palms. “Whoa. Sorry.”

“No, I was just… It’s fine.” Draco snorts. Shakes his head. His cheeks have gone hot again, but perhaps it’s just the hiking. “What is it?”

“It took us longer to get here than I thought, so we might as well stop for the night, but…” Potter gestures ahead, a grin breaking over his face, and Draco squints in the direction he’s pointing. The treeline is dense, but beyond it, he catches a faint sparkle, like—

“Is that _water_?”

“A lake, yeah.” Potter nods. His hiss of, “Stay quiet!” barely slows Draco down as he sets off towards it, but at least it reminds him to soften his footsteps. A lake will be a welcome distraction from the trajectory of his thoughts, the chance to _bathe_ again. They’d been too cautious of showering very often in the hotel, and Draco feels like he’s covered in fifteen layers of filth. He waits impatiently by the break of trees for Potter to catch up, and can’t help his glare when Potter’s first words are, “They can hide underwater; we need to make sure there are none in there.”

“They’re not going to be waiting underwater for us,” Draco says, already shrugging off his pack.

“Trust me,” Potter says, so grimly Draco has no choice but to pay attention. He sighs, his pack settling with the soft crunch of fallen leaves when he sets it down. 

“ _Revelio?_ ” he suggests. Potter hesitates and Draco says, “ _Homenum Revelio?_ ”

Potter gives him a quizzical look. “I don’t think they qualify as human anymore.”

“Close enough. They’re neither Creature nor Being, and the spell is capable of revealing corpses as well as any live human,” Draco says. “It should work.”

“I’m not sure the magic can’t be considered defensive,” Potter murmurs, eyes on the lake through the trees. He sighs and glances at Draco again. “You’re sure it’ll work on them, even if they’ve been reanimated?”

It’s Draco’s turn to hesitate. He doesn’t think Potter will like the reminder very much, and it’s not something he even likes talking about, merely something that had been required of him, to be put out of his mind as soon as he was able. But it’s relevant enough, so he takes a breath. “I did a two year study in the Death Chamber before transferring to Inventions.”

Rather than the flinty accusation Draco expects to see, Potter’s green eyes brighten further. He turns his face away and clears his throat, sounding husky when he says, “Right. Unspeakable. Alright, then.” He swallows and rolls his head from side to side with a long exhale. Taking something out of his pocket, he pops it in his mouth and says, “Stay here; you’ll know quick enough if the spell is an attracter.” 

Before Draco can respond, Potter is striding through the break in the trees, wand held aloft; it must have been one of the Magic Muffling beads that he’d taken. There’s something about his stance as he points his wand at the lake that makes Draco’s vision swim, replacing the Potter standing metres away with the one in his mind, fully decked in scarlet robes, boots echoing a fast clip down the halls of the Ministry. Potter’s casting is inaudible, but after a moment his posture straightens further and Draco can feel the thrum of magic coming from him, great feverish waves of it pitting in his own stomach. He plants a hand on the trunk of the tree he’s standing next to, the lock of his knees suddenly uncertain. He focusses on the feel of the bark — rough, peeling — under his palm, and breathes to get through it until it abruptly fades, like a genie forced back into a bottle. Potter stands on the narrow, sandy bank, and then turns to Draco with a little nod. 

Draco picks up his bag and makes his way to Potter’s side, awareness zipping through him like little aftershocks. Potter’s pupils are huge; he’s panting lightly. With a slightly strained voice, he says, “I had to unleash…”

“I saw.” Draco swallows. “Alright?”

Potter waits a beat. “Yeah.” He licks his lips, still looking at Draco in that exhilarated, hungry way, before saying, “I think it’s safe enough here for now. If you want, you can—” He gestures towards the lake. 

“You’re not going to…?” Draco asks, peeling his shirt off. He drops it to the ground and makes quick work of toeing off his trainers. Potter takes a step away. 

“No, I should keep watch,” Potter says remotely. “And you for me, just in case.” His eyes flick over Draco’s torso; an assessment. “You swim?”

“I’d prefer not to swim the Channel,” Draco says, removing his socks, “but yes. Very well.”

“Don’t go more than waist deep anyway,” Potter says. “I’m going to check things out. Call me when it’s my turn — quietly, though. I’ll keep close enough to hear.” He sets down his pack and walks further down the shoreline. 

Draco watches him for a moment, then kneels and opens their bags to remove the blanket, the shampoo, and his clean clothing. He shucks his joggers and pants and looks at the pile with a grimace of distaste, then spontaneously digs Potter’s clothing out of their bags as well. If he’s right, Potter’s on his last clean shirt, and he has only one pair of joggers and one other set of jeans. Gathering everything up, Draco picks along a series of wide rocks resting just above water level and sits down. The stone beneath him has been warmed by the sun and it sends an illicit shiver through him, one immediately stifled when he regards the clothing again.

He hasn’t employed an elf since moving into his own flat, but there has always been one magical service or another to meet his daily needs. His groceries are delivered on Sundays; Mondays are when the cook comes to prepare the list of suppers Draco wants for the week; Tuesdays are when his cleaning service arrives. And his laundry is always gone when he gets home on Thursdays, back in his wardrobe, clean and pressed, when he returns from work on Fridays. He feels more than a bit out of his depth at the mundane reality of the task he's given himself. 

Still, it’s not as if he can ruin the clothes by putting soap on them. Draco blows out a breath and works swiftly, getting each item thoroughly wet before drizzling them with shampoo. He scrubs them out, gooseflesh rising on his arms as he dips them back into the chilly water to rinse out the foam he’s raised. Potter’s boxers and socks are part of the bundle, and Draco can’t help glancing over his shoulder to check for him, as though Potter might be standing there with a raised brow as Draco washes his undergarments, but Potter is still patrolling along the shoreline in the distance. Draco cleans the items as well as he can and wrings them out, then lays everything flat on the rocks to start drying in the sun. He slides off the rocks into the water. 

It’s not the cleanest lake he’s ever been in, a murky green-blue, and far colder than it felt while dipping his hands into it to wash their clothing, but it’s refreshing, too. Draco ducks his head under the surface and comes up. He cleans his hair, his body. Layer by later, he strips the grime away until he feels a little less like the refugee he is. When he’s finished, he looks for Potter and sees flashes of his blue shirt just beyond the trees, so he indulges himself and sets off to swim along the bank line, checking periodically with his feet to ensure he doesn’t accidentally swim into deep waters. It feels good to move in a way his body doesn’t have to think about, a way his muscles recognise. The jogging he used to do every day before all this to stay fit has been more of a duty, a chore — and one grudgingly committed to, at that — but to hear his mother tell it, he'd learned to swim before he’d learned to walk. Unfortunately, the bylaws regarding wizarding space don’t make room for extending his balcony to build a lap pool, not in the middle of London where Muggles are packed in like sardines, at least. 

He swims to where the sandy shoreline disappears into the trees and back to the rocky buttress, then flips underwater to do it again, mind blissfully cataloguing only those things he needs to keep moving: the pattern of his breath, the burn in his muscles, the extension and stroke of his arms and legs. Eventually he can no longer maintain any of it, so he turns onto his back to float and cool down, gaze firmly set on the two puffy, white clouds in the pink-streaked sky, and that’s when he hears Potter call. Draco turns to see the speck of him standing on the rocks and realises he’s floated nearer to the middle of the lake than he’d intended. With a sigh, he sets for shore. 

Potter crouches as he gets nearer, his mouth quirked in a thoughtful, considering way. He says, “I would have let you just go, but I was hoping to clean off before sundown. You weren’t kidding about how you swim.”

Draco glances at the sky again, standing in the shallower waters. “How long was I…?”

“It’s been over an hour since you started swimming,” Potter says. He doesn’t sound put out, but Draco flushes, embarrassed.

“Sorry.”

“No, it was good to see…” Potter pauses, one dark eyebrow coming down, a troubled look on his face. “It was… It felt like…” He blows out a breath. “It’s fine. But if I can take a turn?”

“Yeah. Pass me the blanket.”

Potter’s brows go up then, but he reaches behind himself to grab the blanket and hold it out. Draco takes it and climbs from the water, shaking it out and wrapping it around his shoulders. The warmth of day has bled away since he’s been in the water, and Potter’s going to have an even colder time of it, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. He tugs off his sling and shirt with one hand, then looks at Draco. “A little help?”

“Right.” Draco ties the blanket more securely around himself and carefully unfastens the medical tape binding Potter’s shoulder. The whole area, from the edge of his clavicle to halfway down his bicep is a rainbow of bruises, blue, yellow, red, green. Potter rolls his shoulder slowly.

“It feels a lot better,” he murmurs, looking at it. “Thanks.”

Draco nods and steps back to check on their clothing, which is mostly dry, as Potter disrobes. Either exceedingly practical or unafflicted with modesty, Potter undresses in a matter-of-fact way, boots kicked off in Draco’s periphery, followed by his jeans and pants. He sits on his arse to pull off his glasses and socks, then slides into the water with a muffled yelp. 

“Fuck, that’s freezing! You could have warned me.”

“Wasn’t exactly warm when I got in,” Draco says. He sits down and drags each article of Potter’s clothing in the water. 

The splashes from Potter’s hopping little half-dance go quiet, and Draco looks up to find him staring at his clothing. “Thanks,” he repeats. “You didn’t have to, but…”

“Actually I did,” Draco says, capping the shampoo before tossing the bottle to Potter, who catches it with an automatic smile. “If I wanted to avoid going another night drifting off to the odour of them. You can only Scourgify so many times before it stops working, you know. Or perhaps not.” He hears a soft snort and looks at him again. “What was it you wanted my expertise on this morning? Or was that just a diversionary tactic so you didn’t have to—?” Draco cuts himself off. He doesn’t actually _want_ to hold his wand again, not if he doesn’t have to. Potter’s works fine for him, anyway.

Potter slides under the surface of the water and comes back up. “It might have been,” he says, avoiding Draco’s eyes. He fiddles with the shampoo for a moment before looking up. “But I actually thought of something.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. That message Hermione sent?” Potter asks, indicating his jacket on the beach. “I’ve got it in my pocket. It included a series of numbers, and I can’t figure out what they mean. Hermione made sure I'd know we'll need some of the beads for them, only they don’t match with any coordinates on the maps. But I’ve been thinking: doesn’t the Department of Mysteries encode a lot of their information with numbers?”

“It's an organisational system that serves us well,” Draco says thoughtfully. “But each subsection uses a different formula.”

“Why numbers at all?”

“Numbers are even more reliable than time is.” Draco sets Potter’s clothes out to dry like the others and gets up as Potter starts scrubbing at his hair. He makes his way to the jacket and digs through the pockets until he finds a couple of folded slips of paper. He unfolds the first, wondering when Potter has been comparing it to the maps; he’s certainly never seen him do so. It’s filled with several lines of Potter’s messy scrawled symbols translated into letters with no spaces between and often no vowels included amongst them, but it doesn’t take Draco a moment to read Granger’s half of her conversation with Potter at the hotel. At the bottom, there are fifteen numbers, in no discernable order. Every subsection of the DoM begins with a specific set of three numbers, though, and none of them match anywhere in Potter’s list. He refolds the note and tucks it back into Potter’s jacket, then opens the second, which looks more worn-around-the-edges.

_Tour with the puppies bumped again…_

_You knew_ , she says savagely in his ear. Then, in a softer, more recognisable tone, one laced with laughter, _Didn’t you?_

Draco shudders out a stiff nod, vision misting. Because yes… he did.

* * *

Harry dawdles while shampooing and getting clean, each brisk motion keeping him warm in the near-frigid water. He’s relieved for the respite from Malfoy’s presence again. He can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that they’re a team, that they can get on fine when they try. He knows he behaved badly that morning, both with his thoughtless swipe at Malfoy’s abilities and when he let his own defensiveness drive him into pushing himself too hard. It bothers him more than it should that he can’t just let it go, everything they went through growing up. Bothers him that Malfoy’s doing a better job of working through any resentment he feels. He even went so far as to clean Harry’s clothes, for fuck’s sake. Harry's never thought himself egotistical before, but he has to admit it’s a bit of a thorn in his side to be shown up in any manner — and especially by _Malfoy._

But he’s trying now, grateful for Malfoy’s mindless storytelling throughout the day. It had been relaxing to get out of his own mind for awhile, to try to picture the childhood of someone blessed with an abundance of everything they could want and for the first time not resent it at all. What he’s less grateful for is the image of Malfoy doggedly swimming along the lake, now imprinted in his mind. After patrolling the lake, setting up a few basic snares for game, and finding a concealed spot to open their tent, Harry’d sat at the shoreline and counted Malfoy’s laps, feeling remarkably… normal. The blue sky above, the subtle twist of magic still tweaking his hindbrain, the lake spread out before him, and Malfoy knifing through the water like he belonged there. The air felt mild and clean on Harry’s skin, and for several minutes it had almost felt as if they were mates on a camping holiday together instead of people forced to work together under inconceivable circumstances. 

He’d enjoyed it, until he realised exactly how dangerous that could be. Forgetting the world and all of its threats is something he shouldn’t allow, not even for a moment. The problem is, he’s already a different man than he was when he first went to fetch Malfoy at the hotel. Neither does he think he can ever go back to being the Harry he was before this all happened, but it's a worrisome thing to feel closer to that self than before. To feel connected to someone up close. He’s not sure being less able to disengage and look at things clinically is a good thing. Not where they are. 

In an ideal world, there’d be a suitable compromise, or Harry’d be travelling with someone less… provoking. Then again, Malfoy’s always known just how to provoke him, and it's always, in one way or another, fuelled Harry's drive to be better. If he'd been tasked with escorting someone else, it's possible they'd both be dead right now. 

Harry looks up. The sun is still up but getting lower in the sky, and he’s not chuffed to stay submerged and get frozen in place, but Malfoy’s been reading Hermione’s numbers for a few minutes and he still has the blanket Harry was hoping to use to dry off. He starts to call out, but something about the way Malfoy is listing almost drunkenly where he stands makes Harry head for the rocks and search for his glasses. He’s barely got them on when he heaves himself from the water, pausing only to grab his wand and almost losing his balance on the rocks as he nearly runs to Malfoy’s side. 

Malfoy’s face is fixed and white, his gaze on the horizon past the lake. He doesn’t acknowledge Harry, who, shivering and dripping, takes him by the shoulders. “Malfoy? Malfoy!”

Malfoy blinks, slowly. His eyes land vacantly on Harry and then with a small twitch, they focus. He stares at Harry for a long beat, arms growing tense under Harry’s hand. Suddenly, he crumples the paper in his fist and shoves it into Harry’s chest. “I honestly might rather die than go another step with you,” he says.

Astonished, Harry loosens his hold. He takes the paper from Malfoy and looks down at it, sees Pansy’s cheerful, feminine handwriting: the note he preserved. “I—”

They look at each other. Several defenses cycle through Harry’s mind — that it hadn’t occurred to him Malfoy had thrown away the note after that happened; that he thought Malfoy might want it one day; that he’d thought it was a kindness. But none of them are true. He’d deliberately not given it much thought at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll get rid of it.”

“You won’t,” Malfoy says, grabbing it back from him. Harry hastily releases it, lest the paper tear, and Malfoy narrows his eyes. “It’s not yours, it never was, why you thought you could _take_ it, even _touch_ it, why you thought—”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry,” Harry says again. It sounds pointless even to his own ears. 

Malfoy’s head twitches and the poisonous gleam disappears from his eyes. In a blink, he deflates and becomes a sad blend of vacant and weary. He takes another step back, head bowed, the damp hair of his fringe hanging. Eyes on the ground, he skirts past Harry and heads over to the rocks, where he bends to retrieve his clothing. Harry follows to stand beside him and takes the blanket when Malfoy silently passes it to him. Malfoy rises and stays still for a moment, clutching his clothes to his stomach. 

Harry rubs a hand over his face, feeling like an absolute shit. He opens his mouth several times to apologise a third time, but Malfoy looks like he’s barely holding it together as he starts pulling his clothing on and Harry suspects that even one more word might send him back to that place he’d gone the first night in the bathroom of the hotel, barely coherent with shock and grief. Harry dries himself off as best he can and gathers glances at his clothing. It's still wet, but it looks like Malfoy’s done a good job of cleaning everything. 

“We need to set up for tonight,” Malfoy says dully. He flicks his eyes over Harry, then looks towards the lake.

“I already did,” Harry says. “Malfoy, I—”

“Where is it?” he asks, nodding when Harry points. He takes a breath. “Leave it, Potter.”

The words die in Harry’s throat as Malfoy walks off, and Harry’s relieved. He doesn’t know what he was about to say, but it likely would have come out some selfish, worthless thing, better designed to alleviate some of his own guilt than any of Malfoy’s pain. He gets dressed in the clean items he brought to change into and collects his boots and clothes from the rocks before heading back to camp. 

Hanging his still-wet clothing over a low-hanging branch on a nearby tree, Harry ponders the tent for a moment. The lamp is turned on and the entrance half-unzipped, and through it, Harry can see that Malfoy’s already lying down, legs curled inward. The hem of his joggers rides up to display socked feet, ankles bony under cotton, and there’s something about them that makes Harry’s chest clench, makes his throat feel thick. He can’t pull his gaze away.

_Get it together, Harry._

_Don’t,_ he tells Ron. _Not now. I shouldn’t have..._

_Right, but it’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve made a mistake, is it?_ Ron asks. _At least you know it._

_I don’t want this,_ Harry admits, something akin to panic rising in his belly, a chaotic flutter he hasn’t felt in years. At some point long ago, he learned to detach from caring about or expecting too much from anything or anyone but those few people who've always been by his side. And even watching his teammates die, even knowing how fucked everything is, nothing since has come close to shaking him the way the vulnerable arch of Malfoy’s feet in white socks do. _I can’t do this._

_Well, you’ve got to, don’t you?_ Ron says, sounding annoyed. _You’ve always had to. _Harry flinches and hears Ron sigh. _You did it then and you’ll do it now,_ Ron says in a gentler voice. A breeze washes over him and Harry closes his eyes. __

___What do I do?_ _ _

__Ron doesn’t respond — but he doesn’t have to. _Do whatever’s necessary,_ is practically part of Harry’s DNA at this point, it’s just more easily applied to the broad scope of things, and the weight between right and wrong, and how many people will be saved by doing a, b, or c. He can duel six wizards without emotion in the face of his own impending death, but what are you supposed to do when you’ve just contributed to someone’s personal hell without meaning to? _ _

__Harry sets down the rest of his things in a ball near his bag, then retrieves the torch from it. Growing up as a Gryffindor, “discretion is the better part of valour” was a phrase he could never particularly understand, and one that, as an Auror, carried even less weight. But he thinks it means that inaction has its own merits, sometimes. Or so he hopes._ _

__He checks the traps, and finds fortune on the last; evidently, the animals have lost their sense of caution in the last few weeks and decided to reclaim their space. The rabbit is small but plump, and dangles lifelessly when he unwinds the snare from around it. It feels like a small mercy, not having to kill it with his hands, and Harry lets himself be glad for it. He hasn’t dressed wild game in a decade but it comes back to him quickly, and he casts a Scourgify to it for good measure, glancing around the shadowed forest as he does. He can still feel the call of his magic from earlier, the euphoric spill of it when he let it go. Something is different here, away from the hordes, and it had taken several seconds for his surging magic to dissipate. Away from the sun, though, he can’t allow himself to think there’s any safety in it, so he’s quiet upon pulling out the camp stove and setting the rabbit on its small grill. There’s not much to be done about the glow of the fire underneath or the smell of cooking meat, but Harry doesn’t think such things attract the Inferi regardless._ _

__He eats by himself when it’s finished, assembling Malfoy’s portion into one of their makeshift bowls before cleaning up, and by the time he gets into the tent, nearly three hours have passed. Malfoy is still awake, staring at the canvas above him. The note sticks halfway out of his pocket._ _

__“Here. I made dinner.” Harry sits on his heels and stretches the tin awkwardly towards Malfoy._ _

__“Real food?” Malfoy asks without interest. But he sits up and takes the tin, glancing once at Harry’s unbound shoulder._ _

__“Sort of, yeah. I set some traps.” Harry motions to his arm. “I can wrap it up in the morning.”_ _

__Malfoy tears the strips of meat off the bone with his teeth mechanically, and though it’s the most appetising thing Harry’s eaten in weeks, he has a feeling it’s just as tasteless to Malfoy as it was to him. It seems a shame, not to be able to enjoy food that doesn’t come in a package after all this time, but there’s no use for it. Harry gazes at him, something complex rumbling through him, a Rubix cube of responsibility and pain exacerbated by the curdled atmosphere inside the tent._ _

__“I don’t know what I’d do,” he says, the staccato of his words cutting against the inside of his throat. Bladed. “If it had been me, I don't know how I'd cope. I don’t know how you do it.”_ _

__Harry inhales, feeling dizzy, and waits. Waits for Ron’s disapproval, for his own crushing guilt at having said the wrong thing again, for Malfoy’s rage. None of it comes. Perhaps because it feels like the most honest thing Harry’s let himself say in years, Ron’s voice of reason is silent. And though Harry's lungs feel like collapsing as he makes himself really think what it would be like, it also makes him appreciate Malfoy’s resolve — his survival instinct, his courage — in a way he’s never been able to, before._ _

__Malfoy’s eyes snap to his and, after a lengthy pause, he sets down the remainder of his food. His lips gleam with grease. “You have, though. Better than I know how.”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__“It— My cousin,” Malfoy stammers. “Dumbledore. Your parents.”_ _

__“It’s not the same.” It’s not _nothing_ , Harry can never say that. But knowing your life resulted in the tragic deaths of those you love, no matter how it haunts you, isn’t comparable to what Malfoy’s done — what he’s had to do. Harry can at least acknowledge that much for him. He rests his fingers on Malfoy’s wrist. It feels too bold, to touch him outside circumstance or necessity, but he doesn't pull away. _ _

__“It’s… mine,” Malfoy says at last, struggling. “Another thing I have to live with.”_ _

__He doesn’t, though. Harry knows that all too well — had learned the lesson one dark night a few weeks after the battle at Hogwarts. He’d dreamed of _Avada Kedavra_ green, dreamed of a misty white train station and, upon waking, had simply… wanted to go back. He'd stayed in bed for hours, his own wand held to his throat, the words on his tongue, and it would have been _so easy_... But the sun had risen and took the night’s shadows with it, and the sound of Ron shuffling down the hall broke him out of his strange trance. It had taken months before he was able to sleep with his wand under his pillow again. _ _

__Harry hears the crinkle of paper as Malfoy pulls the note from his pocket. He sweeps his thumb back and forth over the parchment, a crinkle high on the bridge of his nose. Almost too quietly to hear, he says, “She was in love with me.”_ _

__“Pansy was in…” Oh, god. “I didn’t realise you two were—”_ _

__“Years ago,” Malfoy murmurs, still looking at the paper. “A-and only for a short while. It wasn't enough for me. Not with her.” His voice cracks. “But she. She loved me her whole life. She was… She loved me so much, Potter. I pretended things had got back to normal between us, but I knew. I knew it broke her heart every time she saw me with someone else. I knew— I should have let her go. She came to work at the Ministry because I was there. I let her follow me into her own grave because I didn’t want to give her up. I— I pushed her into it. And then I killed her.”_ _

__“Draco,” Harry says helplessly. Malfoy closes his hand around the note and slowly leans forward, like an old man, to rest his head against Harry’s shoulder. Harry ignores the twinge of pain and brings his arms up, wraps them around him as Malfoy shudders out a single, low sob, then goes quiet, shaking in Harry’s arms. He guides Malfoy down and stretches out with him, gathering him as close as he can. “Draco.”_ _

__“Turn— turn out the light,” Malfoy chokes, his splayed hand a firm, needy press to the small of Harry’s back. It’s the first time he’s requested it, and Harry can’t deny him the right to privacy in his devastation._ _

__Harry presses the button on the lamp, and the world around them plunges into darkness._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, everyone. All my love to you and yours. <3


	7. Psalm 94:19

Draco wakes up to a racing heart. He remains still, Potter relaxed beside him as he catalogues sensations across the bare expanses of his body. He’s gone so long without them, they almost feel foreign: the tackiness of dried come on his stomach and the backs of his knuckles, a subtle, lingering throb in his cock, the persistent, lazy weight of satisfaction in his bollocks. 

The swollen ache of his eyes. 

He glances down at Potter, taking in the crusted, flaking streaks of white over Potter’s stomach and chest, the bright bruises of his shoulder, the way his half-hard cock swells against his grey boxer briefs, visible through his gaping flies. Draco squirms away as quietly as he can and pulls his joggers up, yanks his shirt down. He exits the tent, zipping it closed but pausing to kick the side of the canvas, and hears Potter come awake with a start.

“I’m going to clean off in the lake,” Draco says before Potter can get a word out. 

In the morning chill, the lake is colder than it was after having been sunwarmed all day before he’d bathed in it, but Draco has no plans to go in as deep. Joggers and socks discarded in the sand, he crouches on the shifting pebbles of the shallow waters and splashes his face. He doesn’t know what to think about what happened, and he tries not to let himself. But little flashes come anyway — the soft pads of Potter’s thumbs stroking under the hollows of his eyes as Draco washes away the tracks of his own tears; the sound of their breaths, ragged and anticipatory, as he cleans off his stomach and chest; the hard bulge of Potter’s cock through layers of denim and cotton and the roll of Potter’s hips against his, as Draco cleans off his cock. He remembers the feel of their pricks in his hand, the pulse of Potter’s as he came, his groan muffled against Draco’s neck, and Draco scrubs his hands with wet sand until they feel as raw as he does inside. 

He’s probably the only person in the world who can betray someone in the act of mourning them. 

Through the flit of leaves, Draco can see Potter fussing about the camp from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t particularly want to rejoin him but forces himself up and back into his clothes. Their space is mostly cleared and packed away except for the tent and a few essentials. Potter looks up with a determined glint in his eye as Draco moves to break down the tent. Draco braces himself, but all Potter says, in an exceedingly measured tone, is, “Did you get a chance to look at the numbers Hermione sent?” _I’m not going to bring it up first._

“Yes,” Draco says, relief warring with his surprise as he exhales a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “Yeah. They didn’t make any sense to me, either.”

“She gave me ten days,” Potter says, looking down at the map he’s got open on the ground. He sounds frustrated, an excited pink blotching his cheeks like when— “Now we’ve only got half that.”

Draco clears his throat, glancing away when the silence draws out. “I think—” He forces himself to meet Potter’s eyes. “It must be simple, then. Something Granger must have thought you’d be able to figure out in that amount of time.” 

With a subtle thinning of his lips, Potter slants him a glare and folds up the map. Mildly, he says, “Hermione doesn’t assume I’m an idiot, but thank you for that.”

Potter sighs and stands up, dusting his knees off, and it occurs to Draco that Potter’s already got his jacket on, has already fit himself into his sling. He flicks Draco a slightly challenging glance when he sees him notice. Draco knows he should object — Potter’s shoulder will heal faster if it’s wrapped securely, hard to do one-handed — but the idea of being close enough to Potter to touch his skin makes his stomach lurch. 

“No, I—” Draco says. The last thing he wants is for this to turn into another argument. “I know you’re not. I only meant that because she didn’t give clear instruction, Granger must have thought…”

“Yeah. You’re right.” Potter chews on his lower lip, releasing it with a slow slide from between his teeth. “We’re going to have to travel through occupied territory today, I can’t see any way of avoiding it,” he says. “It might slow us down a bit more but, shortly enough, I think I can guide us through some suburban areas, some farmland and the like. That should simplify things; we haven’t been making the time I’d hoped.”

The term ‘occupied territory’ creeps a chill down Draco’s spine. He sits on the packed dirt and slips on his socks and trainers, noticing to his dismay how thin their soles are wearing. Potter is looking at him with narrowed eyes when he gets up, and Draco catches the protein bars Potter throws him, one after the other in quick succession.

“No rabbit?”

“Let’s get through today first,” Potter says. He touches his wand in its holster, then slings his bag onto his back. “Stay close to me when we clear the trees,” he says grimly. “And run, this time, if I tell you to.” 

The reason for Potter’s order becomes apparent about an hour after exiting the sanctuary of trees. At first, they travel through sleepy neighborhoods, so undisturbed Draco can almost convince himself they’ve gone entirely untouched if not for the occasional house door standing wide open, and eerily overgrown gardens. But their path gradually gives way to taller buildings built closer together... parking structures… dead bodies in the road. Draco is surprised how jarring it is, after what they left behind in Paris. 

“They generally stay out of the sunlight,” Potter reminds him quietly, gesturing Draco nearer to his side. “Not always, but…”

“Because of its relation to Fiendfyre,” Draco says. 

Potter pauses. Nods. “Is that the origin of the spell?”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense, I guess. I’d never seen it like it was in Paris, though,” Potter says, then stops abruptly, catching Draco by the elbow with one gloved hand, fingers tightening fractionally when Draco draws in a sharp breath and looks down at it. He shakes off Potter’s touch instinctively — it’s too potent, even now — and looks to where Potter points: two long, squat buildings, each containing a series of shops with broken windows. There’s a wide walking path in between them.

“We have enough to last for several days,” Draco murmurs, unnerved almost as much by Potter’s proximity and his reaction to it as he is by the thought of foraging for supplies in a darkened building. “Especially with your… hunting.”

A faint smile twitches at the corner of Potter’s mouth, the first Draco’s seen since before… Potter says, “I wouldn’t call it that, though you’re right. But I thought—” He plucks at the sleeve of Draco’s t-shirt, a silent, _Follow me_ , and with a sigh, Draco does. Potter leads him to one of the shops at the end of the row. “Stay here.”

“No, I can’t; I’ve got my own mysterious errand to do over there,” Draco says with a sarcastic wave of his hand. Potter snorts softly, his tenuous smile flashing wide and unchecked for a beat, then ducks in through the shattered storefront. He returns in less than a minute and escorts Draco into the shop. It’s dim, and for a moment Draco thinks it’s been pillaged before it occurs to him that many of the clothing displays are _supposed_ to look like that. 

“What are we doing here?”

“You need some things,” Potter says, pulling out one hanger after another and holding up the jackets in Draco’s direction while squinting behind his glasses. He discards several of them, but keeps one in brown leather and shoves it into Draco’s arms, then turns to pick through stacks of shirts and jeans on a nearby table. He shakes a few of them out, glances narrowly at Draco again, then pushes two sets of jeans and a few shirts into his arms as well. Draco clutches everything close, dumbfounded. 

“These are… used,” he says. He feels he ought to be disgusted, but mostly he’s just confused; Potter can’t actually expect him to wear clothing from an unknown source, can he?

“They’ll have been cleaned,” Potter says distractedly, but then he stops rifling through the clothing on another table. His mouth drops open, and he turns to Draco very slowly. “Really, Malfoy? _Really?_ ”

Draco’s face grows hot and he bites back several pithy comments about Potter’s own shopping habits before he says something he regrets. Things are strange enough between them as it is, and despite the look on his face, there’s something remarkably decent about the restraint Potter shows in not questioning Draco’s priorities out loud. 

“It’s fine,” Draco mutters, feeling about fourteen. 

Potter gives him a clipped nod and says, “The fitting rooms are behind you. Bring out anything that doesn’t work. I’ll keep watch. I think I saw some boots near the front, too — you’re... an eleven?”

“Yes. A forty-six, here.” Draco watches stupidly as Potter turns away before he heads to the cramped room. The lock on the door is the hook-and-eye sort, and he latches it before stripping down for the second time that day. One after another, he tries on the items and finds reason to be pleased he held his tongue — not only because everything fits, but because the clothing Potter’s picked is all of surprisingly good quality. The jacket is especially nice, the leather supple and worn, soft as velvet, the inside lined with real silk. He leaves on the second set of jeans, and shrugs out of the jacket to try on the last shirt, a cream-coloured thermal, when the doorknob suddenly twists. The lock rattles as Potter tries to tug the door open, and Draco drops the shirt, fumbling to unlock it. 

Potter rushes inside, boots and other articles tumbling from his own grip. He twists and re-latches the lock, facing away from Draco and backing up until Draco is pinned against the wall. 

“It’s not them,” he says under his breath, but Draco doesn’t take much comfort from it — not while Potter’s holding both his wand and machete so tightly, one in each hand.

“What, then?”

“Muggles, I think,” Potter whispers. His back is a hard line of tension against Draco, from the nape of his neck to the curve of his buttocks. His knuckles are white. “I hope.”

“If it’s just Muggles, why—?” He falls silent when Potter makes an impatient gesture with his wand hand; it’s the same gesture one would use to cast a _Muffliato_ , ironically enough. Draco’s almost tempted to smile, but Potter presses back against him and inhales sharply, and that’s when Draco hears them. If he’d had time to think about it, Draco might have assumed Potter was referencing two or three people, but the group sounds larger and consists of at least five overlapping voices, talking and laughing — none of them even attempting discretion. They sound… They sound young. Draco swallows. “They’re going to get themselves killed. Don’t they _know?_ ”

Potter shakes his head, unkempt hair brushing Draco’s face. “They’ve got to know… something, of course. There might not have been a sighting in awhile; they might think it’s safe,” he says, barely audible over the sound of glass breaking not too far away. “They might be scavengers who’ve let down their guards. It doesn’t matter. With that uproar, it won’t be long before—”

“We should warn them.” Draco says it unthinkingly, startled when Potter immediately shakes his head again. 

“They’d be worse off if we were there,” Potter says, and Draco reaches up to grip Potter’s forearms, a sudden tide of anger seething through him. 

“They’d be worse off if we told them to shut the fuck up?” he hisses in Potter’s ear. Potter twitches and Draco applies pressure, forcing Potter’s brandished weapons down. “I’m not suggesting we start using _magic_ in front of them, just that we…”

Potter wrests his arms from Draco’s hands, but he keeps them at his sides. He turns his head. “Just that we what? Go out and give them a little friendly advice? It’s a group of them, you think they’re going to listen to the kindly strangers that appear out of nowhere to tell them to keep it down ‘or else’?” He’s panting a little, his profile flickering with a dozen emotions before settling into something hard and stark. “And even if I thought they would, what if I was wrong? They almost certainly have weapons. We can’t defend with magic and I’m sure as hell not going to use this on them,” he raises the machete for emphasis, “not if they don’t force me into it.”

“So we just wait, then?” Draco asks, heart kicking unsteadily against his ribcage. 

“For them to leave,” Potter says. But there’s a deeper truth, an unspoken ‘or…’, in the catch to his voice, and it makes Draco grateful that Potter’s weight is propping him up. He rests his hands against Potter’s ribcage, sinking his fingers into the material of Potter’s jacket to steady himself. He takes a breath. 

“I think I should get the boots on.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation before Potter steps away. He leans one hand on the door and watches as Draco hurriedly kneels and puts the boots on, ties them. Draco slips on the thermal and jacket, then looks at the remaining items in consternation; even using magic simply to Shrink something might put him and Potter at risk, in the middle of a town with only a fragile lock between the outside word and where they stand. He manages to stuff the other set of jeans into the bag on Potter’s back and rolls up the shirts, shoving them into the deep pockets of his jacket. 

There’s a shout: “Merde! Courez, je vois—!” 

Someone screams.

Potter goes rigid, face washed of all colour. The group sounds like they’re running in the same direction they came from and Draco hears the keening of the Inferi in the distance — a smaller collection of them than in Paris, but one that’s assuredly about to grow. Potter blinks a few times, jaw clenching, then exhales slow and deep. He whispers, “I checked for a back door and didn’t find one — we’ll have to leave through the front. Be ready to go at my signal. Once we’re out, turn left, same route we were on before we stopped, then round the corner and _keep going._ Now put on the gloves and the belt.”

Draco looks down and spots the items Potter brought in with the boots. He tugs the belt through the loops on his jeans and steadies the tremble of his fingers long enough to get the gloves on. He mirrors Potter and puts one hand on the door, and they look at each other in a charged silence that finally breaks with a far-off clatter and another scream. Another. 

Another.

_Another._

Potter slips his hand down, under Draco’s arm, and carefully unlatches the lock. He twists the doorknob and nods at Draco, just a touch. Draco backs off, holding his breath as Potter eases the door open and slides out, then waves a hand for Draco to join him. The screams are louder without the door in the way, some pained and some terrified; it sounds like the group is trapped in one of the attached shops near the mouth where they came in. Through the broken door pane, Draco sees nothing but an empty walkway, but he can sense motion as he and Potter slowly approach. Potter gestures to some glass with his wand and pointedly steps around it; Draco follows suit, and they peer out of the storefront together. 

Four shops down the row, there’s a pulsing wave of dark magic, so powerful Draco envisions it as a toxic cloud of dense, black smoke. There are enough Inferi that they don’t all quite seem to fit, but they press against the windows, trying desperately to climb in, over each other, _through_ each other, and their attention is directed wholly on the few unlucky humans somehow still alive inside. 

His gaze locks with Potter’s, whose face is grave. Urgent. He practically hears Potter’s voice in his head, and without questioning it, Draco runs. _Left. Around the corner. Original route. Keep moving. Away, away._ He can feel Potter at his back, then side, overtaking him in speed, and he lets himself tune into the nuances of Potter’s body like when they left Paris days ago. (Like last night.) It feels strangely choreographed: a turn when your partner’s hip starts to twist; a complicated series of fast steps when his ankle rotates; a spin when his palm briefly presses your back. Potter leads and Draco accompanies him until long after the last note in the ghastly symphony behind them has faded, until they’re breathless and sweating. And then Draco finds himself once more pinned, against the brick wall of the alley they've wound up in. 

“Breathe, Malfoy,” Potter says. His chest expands and collapses against Draco’s, and he cups the side of Draco’s neck in a warm, damp palm. He studies Draco; his eyes are very green. 

“Where’s your glove?” Draco asks blankly. 

Potter squeezes the side of his neck, just once, before backing up a few steps and looking down at his bare hand. He flexes it, balls it into a fist, and Draco notices the whitening of a faint scar pulling tight. Potter glances at him. “I cast _Alohomora_ at a random door, then threw the glove into an open window as we ran. If they come this way, it’ll occupy them, I think.”

Draco peels off his right glove — it only makes sense, if Potter is determined to stand between him any threat they face — but Potter shakes his head. Draco glares at him and finishes removing the thing, then shoves his hand into the left pocket of Potter’s coat. Potter automatically reaches to stop him but goes still, face arrested, eyes flicking between Draco’s searching hand and his face. A wicked slice over the pad of Draco’s forefinger indicates he’s found what he’s looking for, and he grabs it, pulls it out. Potter inhales sharply through his nose. 

“You don’t have to…”

“It’s one way or the other, Potter,” Draco says, curling it into the palm of his hand. “I’m in the thick of it, the same as you, aren’t I? You can take the glove or the wand.”

It’s not a wand, really. Not anymore, though a simple transfiguration will return it to its proper form. But it’s hard enough to look at in its new shape, let alone give name to what it is now, so he’ll call it whatever he damn well needs to. 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy—” Potter breaks off, striding towards him. He grasps the side of Draco’s neck again, palm moulding to the curve of it, a look of intense assessment on his face. He leaves space between their bodies, but Draco can feel it rise between them, the same expectancy which replaced the oxygen in his lungs last night when his tears finally petered out. Potter swallows and mutters, “Put the wand in your pocket; I’ll unshrink it later. And put your stupid glove back on.” He searches Draco’s eyes. “I can always rob another shop.”

“It’s good to know that England’s top Auror has such an indifferent stance on larceny,” Draco says with a surprised hiccup of laughter, and Potter smiles at him in a soft, curious sort of way. 

“We have to take what we need when we need it,” he says simply. “Don’t we?”

Draco’s heart stutters; he can feel himself blushing. He doesn’t know how to untangle everything inside of him to parse shame from arousal or guilt from gratitude. Potter’s thumb sweeps up and down along Draco’s throat, and he tilts his head thoughtfully, almost certainly able to feel Draco’s erratic pulse. His eyes darken and he steps away again. 

“We’ve been here too long. Put the glove back on,” he repeats, an order this time. But his gaze runs over Draco’s body as Draco obeys, and his voice is rough when he says, “We can talk about it later. If you want.”

It. _It._ There are a thousand ways Draco could interpret that other than as the promise it feels like, and it’s a twist of the knife Draco’s got embedded next to the heat building inside him. But ultimately, he knows his own guilt won’t deter him. He and Potter are going to have each other again. The awareness of it slides up his back like the whisper of a lover to settle on his shoulders as sure as the perfect fit of the jacket Potter picked. The knowledge isn't even so much shocking as just _there_ , and for one wild moment he wonders if he’s known since he first saw Potter’s face at the hotel — or perhaps even before. It’s reminiscent of the feeling he had when his parents informed him at age four that he’d be attending Hogwarts, that he’d been written into the Book of Admittance at a mere six hours old. It’s overwhelming, and yet somehow… not. 

“Yes,” he says, giving in. He slides the glove back on and stores his wand in his pocket. “Later.”

* * *

“I didn’t want to— to just _abandon_ those people, you know,” Harry says as the town turns into a distant, blurry sight behind them. The words just fall out of his mouth and he cringes a little, but it’s been almost three hours since they left the alley and it’s the only thing he can think of other than Malfoy’s body heaving under his last night, fevered and almost crazed for release, and Malfoy’s clearly not willing to confront that yet. It might be funny under any other circumstances, how his life seems to have once again shrunk to the concerns of death and sex, but Harry just feels weary. He’d caught a glimpse of several people from the group who’d been killed, and there were a few who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He can still hear their screams, can still feel the force Malfoy used to try to get him to lower his weapons. “If there was something I could have done…” He clears his throat. “Well, I would have.”

Except that’s a lie, isn’t it? It may not have resulted in his survival — or even theirs — but he could have made a different choice. 

There’s always another choice.

They come upon a series of cars on the side of the road, rear panels and front wings crunched into one another. Several of them have been vacated, their doors flung wide open, but in the one at the front, the windows are rolled down and the driver’s body remains inside with his companion, both of them still belted in, their faces bloody and postures slumped. Harry eyes them to make sure they’re just dead as he and Malfoy pass, and doesn’t miss the way Malfoy puts his hand into his pocket.

Malfoy’s quiet for a bit. The neighbourhoods they’re travelling through lengthen. Space stretches between the property lines until finally they’re replaced with farmland — crops that have dried out and gone to waste from lack of care. 

“I shouldn’t have said what I did at the shop,” Malfoy finally says. “That wasn’t fair of me. I had the luxury of not having to make that decision; you didn't. ...I don’t think you ever have.”

Harry glances at him. Malfoy’s nose is pink, sweat turning his hair a delicate gold at the roots, and Harry realises that sometime during their journey the clouds have parted. He’s in the habit of relegating discomfort — from chill, from heat or exhaustion — to the back of his mind, the way he’s always done with Auror work, but he notices it now. Leather is particularly useful to protect the skin from the touch of Inferi, much better than cotton or even wool, but Malfoy’s got long sleeves under his jacket as well, and he looks both chalky and overheated, which isn’t good. 

“Take off your jacket for a while,” he says. Malfoy’s silvery gaze flicks to him and Harry nods. “It’s fine. The road is clear — if we see something, you’ll have time to put it back on.” 

“Thank fuck,” Malfoy mumbles. They stop and he shrugs off his bag and removes the jacket, shoving the sleeves of the cream top he’s wearing up to his elbows. Harry looks ahead as they start walking again so he won’t be tempted to stare; the clothes suit Malfoy’s long, lanky frame almost too well. Harry never would have guessed. Malfoy fans himself and sighs, and Harry makes a mental note to look for sunblock.

“It wasn’t unfair of you,” Harry says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “I get it. I thought it, too. The whole time, I was thinking— But I couldn’t see any way around it.”

“Don’t tell me what’s not unfair of me,” Malfoy snaps. “I know when I’m being unfair.” Perplexed by the shift, Harry chances another look. Malfoy’s lips curve up briefly, as though he’d been teasing; he shrugs and his voice softens. Becomes hesitant. “If you keep replaying it in your head, it’ll drive you mad.”

Harry searches for a response and comes up empty — he can’t exactly claim Malfoy doesn’t know what he’s about on the subject, but he can’t broach it directly, either. Can he? 

“Did you want to talk about... it?” 

Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobs. He shakes his head. “No. Thank you. Not— I can’t, yet.” He cocks his head to the side, pale eyelashes sweeping down as he glances at Harry, lips pursed. “Have you ever?”

“A yearly psychological evaluation is required for Aurors,” Harry says. 

Smirking, Malfoy says, “For Unspeakables, too.” He pauses. “Have you ever talked about it?”

Harry snorts. “The polite thing would be to let me deflect.”

“And here I was under the impression you were aware I’m not very polite.”

“Your parents will be appalled.”

“I can feel my mother gripping her pearls,” Malfoy says. “Well?”

“I have no opinion on your mother’s pearls,” Harry says, grinning when Malfoy rolls his eyes. “But if you tell me your father wears them, I might.”

“My father’s caretaker can barely keep him clothed and safely in his rooms at the Manor, so I wouldn’t put it past him,” Malfoy says sourly. He clamps his lips shut and closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling. “That was—”

“Personal?” Harry waves it off. Lucius Malfoy’s mental state upon his release from Azkaban had been newspaper fodder for weeks, but he can’t begrudge any complex feelings Malfoy has for his father, just because Harry loathes the man. “It’s fine.”

“I was going to say ‘disrespectful’,” Malfoy says, then sighs. "Irrelevant, anyway." He narrows his eyes to the long road before them and swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Where are those dark specs?”

Harry fishes them from the pocket of his bag and hands them over. The sunglasses have reflective lenses, and he hides a frown when Malfoy slips them onto the bridge of his nose; Malfoy’s eyes are unusually expressive, and Harry wants to know what he’s thinking. 

“If you think that’s disrespectful, you should hear how I talk about him,” Harry says. Malfoy cracks a laugh that goes on too long and is underscored by a harsh, bitter wheeze when he draws in a breath. 

“He’s probably dead.” It’s sobering, an unwelcome reminder, but Malfoy says it unemotionally, though the ghost of an ironic smile still lingers on his face. “Mother, too. The magic on our lands, to say nothing of the magic in the wards around the Manor, is… strong. Strong and old. Enough to feed thousands of them for centuries to come. It will have attracted the Inferi from London.” 

“Maybe. Maybe it protected them.”

“Like magic protected the rest of us?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, so Harry doesn’t answer. He points to the lonely petrol station they’ve been approaching. “It’s probably ransacked but do you want to see if there’s anything left?” he asks. He hadn’t exactly given Malfoy the choice of stopping earlier. He can’t really apologise for that — Malfoy’s trainers were perhaps a single hard day’s walk from losing their soles, and the rest of his clothes didn’t offer much in the way of protection — but he can at least give him the option, now. He's probably traumatised Malfoy enough for one day. “Then we’d not have to dip into our own supplies. We need to stop and eat, anyway.”

Malfoy considers. “At the very least, it’s shaded,” he says. He looks down when Harry extends an arm across Malfoy’s stomach to signal that Malfoy should stay behind him, Malfoy’s stomach muscles tensing against the back of Harry’s wrist. He’d tensed up all over when they’d come together too, his calves hooked around the back of Harry’s going firm and tight, his thighs gripping Harry’s hips, his hand moving frantically over their cocks. The memory of the moment throbs between them, as inconvenient and tempting as the new throb in Harry’s hardening cock. 

Harry drops his arm. 

Malfoy inhales shakily, and lags behind when they get closer to the building. He nods and waits beside one of the pumps, and Harry goes inside, _Lumos_ ing the tip of his wand for a better look around. The store has indeed been pillaged: the till is open and empty, a few of the shelves have been knocked over, items are squished underfoot. Several of the bottles of wine from the display on the far wall have toppled, leaving the floor sticky and dark, sparkling with broken glass when the light from Harry’s wand hits it. Harry picks his way through the wreckage and looks in the back to find a toilet, what was probably a storage area before scavengers got to it, and a small, still-tidy office. He grabs a few of the more obviously useful items, then heads to the door and gestures at Malfoy to come in. 

“Good Merlin,” Malfoy says. His nose wrinkles in distaste. “What’s that smell?”

“I opened a door in the refrigerated section,” Harry says. “Most everything left in it has gone off.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Malfoy says in that snotty way of his, but nevertheless crouches and hunts through the remains with Harry for several minutes in silence. They find a few packets of crisps that haven’t been ruined and a few stray chocolate bars. Harry ventures to the fridges again and pulls out two lukewarm Cokes. Malfoy sits on the counter, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Harry on the chair behind it, as they start eating. It’s not the healthiest meal perhaps, but it’s got calories, and after their escape this morning, those will do Malfoy good. 

“So you’ve never talked about it?” Malfoy asks when they’ve gone through most of the food, apropos of nothing. He breaks a piece of chocolate from the end of his bar, not looking up. There’s a watchfulness to his posture, even to his lack of eye-contact, that feels deliberate.

Harry pauses mid-chew, the taste of salt and vinegar suddenly too powerful on his tongue. He forces himself to swallow the crisp, then washes it down with the soft drink to buy some time. 

“You don’t have to answer, Potter,” Malfoy says, a wry twist to his lips. He pops the chocolate into his mouth, tucks it into his cheek. “I was simply curious.”

“I’m just not sure what you’re referring to,” Harry says with as much honesty as he can muster. “There are a lot of things you could— The battle? Going into the forest that night? Dying?” He shakes his head. “The fact that people died for me, because of me? No.”

“Not even with—”

“A little,” Harry concedes, ignoring the shudder of warning in his chest. “Ron, Hermione. I talked about Fred a bit with Arthur and Mo— _Fuck._ ” The curse is unintended, as surprising as the blur to his eyes and the way he stands from his chair without meaning to, so fast he tips it over. There's a _reason_ he doesn't let his mind go down certain pathways anymore. 

Blinking to clear his vision, Harry makes himself meet Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy stares at him apprehensively, and Harry takes a couple of deep breaths. Unsensible to the last, his cock starts to stiffen again as they look at each other. Harry has the urge to grab him, to shake him, to push him down where he sits and climb atop him. He remembers that desire, those last moments thinking of Ginny’s mouth and hair, her blazing look and the comfort he might have liked taking in her body, right before that final curse Voldemort had landed on him. Anything not to be in the moment he'd been in. 

He’s seconds away from doing it, from stepping forward and taking back whatever it was he gave Malfoy last night — the last of his of control, of his ability to compartmentalise, the last of his fucking _mind_ , maybe — when Malfoy slowly lowers his leg to dangle with the other. 

“It’s like you said,” Malfoy says in a stifled little murmur. “We can talk about it later, if we want.” 

Harry’s jaw tightens of its own accord as he tries to figure out what to do with that. Malfoy’s acquiescence earlier when Harry’d said the same thing had seemed an acknowledgment of sorts — that he knew Harry wasn’t angry, that he knew Harry had been willing. _Too_ willing, if anything, enough to come all over someone when he could still smell the salt of their tears on their face. It had seemed like Malfoy was saying he knew Harry was willing to let whatever had to happen between them, happen. The problem is that Harry has no way of turning it back into the transaction he’d thought it would be when it started, the measure of solace he’d been trying to provide so that Malfoy might be able to pull out of his despair. But, bare seconds after Malfoy’s lips had begun to move hot and damp on Harry’s neck, his body starting a tentative, rhythmic slide against Harry’s own, it had shifted into something else. It was supposed to have stayed in the dark, in the tent, left behind with everything else when the sun rose. It wasn’t supposed to have been about what _Harry_ wanted. 

It’s not supposed to be something he wants again, so fiercely he can almost taste it.

“I don’t know—” _What you want from me. What I want from you._ He feels, absurdly, like he’s going to cry.

Malfoy swallows. The part of his thighs widens a touch. “We don’t have to talk at all,” he says, levelly enough, though the rush of hot colour to his face says something different. 

“I—” Words fail Harry. He stands there idiotically, knowing he should say _We can’t,_ and _It’s not safe_ , and _This isn’t about me at all_ , but his cock is straining so hard against his flies, and his heart is trying to batter its way from his chest, and he can’t draw a breath deep enough to clear his mind. And then Malfoy solves his dilemma for him: he closes his legs; he slides off the counter. He clears his throat and places something on the countertop. 

“Or not,” Malfoy says, profile lit by the sunlight coming in through the door, his expression closed. “Fix that for me, would you? I didn’t particularly appreciate being left outside without a way to defend myself,” he adds. He brushes past Harry and walks out, stopping in Harry’s line of vision. He clasps his hands behind his back and faces the distant horizon. Harry’s exhale feels more like a gasp, the oxygen having turned stale in his lungs. 

It takes Harry a few minutes to compose himself, and he feels too exposed by the open space — and Malfoy’s narrow look — when he finally joins him. He hands Malfoy the half-scimitar, wiped clean of its lingering bloodstains. Malfoy takes it with a small gulp, holding it loosely at his side. 

“When we settle for the night, I’ll take one of the beads and see about transfiguring your belt,” Harry says tersely. He can’t even look at him, but he can sense Malfoy gearing up to say something, so he holds up one hand. “We’ve got a long way to go. We need to get moving.”

* * *

Silence reigns for the rest of the day, as Potter guides him along what appear to be back roads, and through remote neighbourhoods. Potter is the only one who breaks it, once to toss Draco a small tube of a sun-protective cream with instructions that Draco slather his face and neck with it, and twice more, with explanations regarding their route. They’re delivered tersely, no response required, and Draco’s glad for that, what happened at the station looming too large in his mind. 

He’d thought— For a moment, he’d thought— 

But no. Replaying it in his mind, Draco can’t discern if it had been rejection or mere indecision on Potter’s face. Either way, Draco feels an utter fool for having made such an offer, despite the knowledge that still streaks up and down his spine when he feels Potter glance his way. 

They stop for a few piss breaks, soft drinks running through them, and after the last, Potter points to a copse of thin trees about a kilometre off and says they’ll be setting up for the night. It looks to be a pathetic shelter from detection, but as they get nearer it turns out to have some depth, stretching out further than it seemed to from the road, and as an added bonus, is rife with thorny brambles, each one heavy with wild blackberries and raspberries. The vegetation is chaotic with colour, green and red and rich navy, and as soon as Potter’s sanitised them, Draco and Potter each sling their bags to the rocky floor to stand in place and gorge themselves.

“Was this on the map?” Draco can’t help but ask. For a few, blissful minutes, he doesn’t even think about the awkwardness of talking to Potter, too grateful for the taste of something fresh and bright on his palate. The berries are overripe, juicy and sweet, bursting with the mere effort it takes to press them to the roof of his mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t miss the irony; a month ago, he dined only on the finest ingredients and in the finest restaurants, when he had the chance to go out. Now, wild berries — from the middle of Nowhere, France, and scoured clean with a fast charm — taste like ambrosia.

Potter shakes his head. “We lucked upon it,” he mumbles, swallowing his mouthful. “I thought we might have to sleep in the middle of a field, or break into a house.” His lips are stained dark, a streak of juice trickling from the corner of his mouth to his chin. 

“Sun’ll be down soon,” Potter says, once their eating has slowed. He’s bleeding slightly from a couple of scratches on his knuckles. Draco’s hands aren’t unaffected, either, but he’d barely noticed the sting from the thorns until his stomach was full and considers it a fair exchange.

Draco looks out through the trees. “We’ve more than an hour, yet.”

Potter grunts. “Just enough time so I’m not tripping around in the dark. Find a place to put up the tent,” he says. He rubs his palms against his jeans, gathers a few things from his bag, and walks off. His gaze remains averted the whole time. 

Stunned, Draco watches him go for a moment, then picks up both bags and heads in the opposite direction. The woodland is long but narrow, and he can see Potter thumping around on the other side, quick flashes of him between the stand of trees to the constant rustling sound of disturbed vegetation. Draco finds a clear spot near the middle, right beside a wide rock that nears his own height, where the floor is more earth than loose stones. Since they have time, Draco scrapes the area completely bare and gathers fallen leaves to make a pallet for them before opening up the tent. He takes out the blanket and lamp, folds his own jacket down where his head will be, then changes into his remaining set of joggers. He regrets the loss of his other set, worn though they were. Potter might not think anything about sleeping in denim, may find him absurd for clinging to creature comforts, but Draco frankly doesn't care — as long as he has them, he'll use them. He can hear Potter traipsing closer, and sits with his back against the rock to wait. 

“I, um.” Potter looks at him, dirty and disheveled, that drip of berry-juice still obvious on his chin. “I don’t think we’ll catch anything to cook tonight. I set a few traps, but the area is too small for any animals not to notice our presence.”

“The berries were good enough.”

“You should eat something more substantial,” Potter says, a bit gruffly.

“I will, if I get hungry.”

In the fading light, Draco can't make out the colour of Potter’s eyes — but he can see that they’re leveled right at him. Potter breaks their gaze and crouches to root around in their supplies, coming back with their dwindling bag of almonds. He tosses it and it lands with a gentle thump next to Draco’s hip.

“There,” he says, stooping back down to work Draco’s belt free from the jeans Draco’d folded and set just inside the tent. “Finish those off. Protein. I’ll be right back.”

Draco’s not remotely hungry, but if he had been, any remaining appetite would have fled upon seeing Potter with his belt. His thoughts unerringly return to his wand, still lying in the dirt near the berry hedges. He’s not ready to have it and more-than-half wishes he hadn’t insisted to Potter that he was. He’s only survived the day holding it by not contemplating its existence too closely. It feels disconcertingly right in his hand, relieved to be there — happy, even. At more than one point along their walk, Draco’d wanted to return it to its natural form, to cast with it, the temptation of magic flowing hot through his system. Only the persistent inclination that he snap it over his own knee and rid himself of its actions permanently had subdued those urges. If it wasn’t one of the most famous wands in existence — though he doesn’t even know if that matters anymore — he might have. The pleasure he takes in touching it feels like a violation. 

A flicker of light draws his attention, and he looks up to find Potter, torch in hand, coming towards him. Draco hears the rattle of his belt buckle as Potter sets it back onto his jeans, sees the light swerve and pause on the bag of almonds. Faintly backlit, Draco can see the furrow of Potter’s frown. 

“If you’re not going to eat, we should go to bed,” he says, the torchlight arcing along the ground in an agitated manner. 

Draco rises from his place and ducks into the tent, taking his boots back off and stretching out. He’s not nearly so sore as he’s been over the course of the previous days, even with the hard run they were forced into this morning. He almost misses it; it was as good a distraction as any from heartsickness. 

Climbing in after him, Potter zips the tent shut and puts on the lamp before turning his torch off. He busies himself with little things: removing his own boots, folding his own jacket in the empty spot near Draco’s, unwinding the sling from his shoulder and swallowing two of the medicinal tablets. His face is clean now, recently washed, and Draco watches him and wonders how long it will be before Potter runs out of ways to avoid lying down next to him. 

Potter removes his glasses. He folds the legs and sets them aside. Then he takes a breath and reaches to unsnap the button of his jeans. Draco comes up onto his elbows in surprise. Potter’s jaw is hard as granite, his gaze intense on Draco’s face. 

His voice is stilted. “One hundred and eighty-eight. A hundred and eighty-eight people have died for me, or directly because of me,” he says. The words slam like a hex into Draco’s midsection and he curls inward instinctively, as though he can protect himself from its effects. Potter jerks open his jeans with one hand and palms his cock through his pants. There’s already a dark patch seeping through the material, as though it’s been damp for awhile. “Tell me now if I’ve got it wrong,” he rasps.

A beat of silence passes, Draco's heart gone thick in his throat. Shaken, he breathes, “No." 

Still massaging himself, Potter eyes him, then suddenly leans over and turns off the lamp as quick as he'd turned it on. He pushes from his position on his knees to cover Draco, one leg forcing his thighs apart. Draco closes his eyes at the drag of Potter’s erection against his hip and tenses, his responses more startled than he feels, his hand already slid inside Potter’s underwear to grip him. Potter’s cock jumps when Draco takes hold of it, hot and heavy in his hand, and with a wretched little groan, Potter fucks into his fist. 

“I need—” he says. He’s shaking all over, as hard as Draco did last night, and the tremor somehow must transfer between them, back and forth, because Draco starts shaking again as well, his own prick swelling further as Potter pumps his hips. Potter makes a small, choked sound. “I want—”

“I know.” Draco doesn’t know what’s happening between them, less so what it _means_ , but he knows what it is to need something that feels good, and this _does_ oh, fuck— yes, it feels good, when so little else might ever again. Draco pumps Potter’s cock with firm, unrelenting strokes, and Potter’s head falls forward, open mouth landing on the join of Draco’s jaw. He flicks his tongue out along the stubble there before scraping his way down the side of Draco’s neck with his teeth. Draco widens his thighs to slot Potter more comfortably between them; he yanks Potter’s jeans and pants lower and cups Potter’s arse, running his hands over sparse hair and tight muscle. He has a flash of what it might be like to open Potter up, to push inside him, and his own cock pulses out a dribble of precome, a wrench of pleasure streaking through him so sharply that he can’t hold back a gasp. 

“Fuck,” Potter hisses, driving faster into the circle of Draco’s fist. “ _Draco._ ” With a shudder, he grabs Draco’s wrist and peels his hand away, pressing it to the ground. He says, “I want—”

“Tell me,” Draco says, hips jerking in search of friction. “I'll do it.”

Potter groans again, his cockhead streaking wet over Draco’s stomach where his shirt’s rucked up. He bites the bend of Draco’s shoulder, nips the shell of his ear, and then slides down the length of Draco’s body, loosening the ties at Draco’s waist as he goes. Draco moves instinctively, lifting his hips when Potter goes to pull his bottoms down, widening his thighs as much as his joggers will allow. 

Potter hunches between them, and Draco’s mind goes blank as the slick heat of Potter’s mouth envelops him, surrounding him with a hard, sucking pressure that makes Draco’s balls tingle and eyes water. Potter bobs his head, saliva sliding cool down Draco’s shaft each time Potter draws back to lick hot over the crown, and the resultant contrasting sensations have Draco quivering. He grips Potter’s hair unthinkingly and forces his head down. Potter coughs, chokes for a moment, but makes a needy, aroused sound and opens his mouth wider, unresisting as Draco starts to fuck deeper into his constricting throat with fast, urgent thrusts. Potter’s hair is soft and curls around Draco’s fingers; the tiny sounds he makes vibrate around Draco’s cock, and the muscles in Draco’s legs go taut as his orgasm approaches. Then Potter reaches up and tugs at Draco’s balls, squirming a finger between Draco’s arse cheeks to rub over his hole, and Draco breaks, hips flying up. He comes so hard there’s a flare of pain behind his eyes that beats in time with the rhythm of his cock throbbing out his climax. Potter swallows again and again with a grateful little moan that shivers another twist of pleasure from Draco before it's finished.

Dizzy, Draco relaxes against the ground. His cock slips out of Potter’s mouth and he loosens his hold on Potter’s hair. There’s something about the shroud of darkness which surrounds them that reorients him faster than if he could see properly, but even before Potter rises, he knows Potter hasn’t come. Knows that it doesn’t have to be over yet, this escape from horror, so different from the others they’ve shared. Potter rests his forehead for a moment against Draco’s stomach, panting jagged breaths into Draco’s pubic hair before he shifts and straightens, his fast-working arm jostling Draco’s knee. Draco forces himself up onto his knees, and shuffles closer to the dark silhouette of Potter’s body. Potter flinches when Draco touches him, his steady strokes faltering, but Draco simply pushes Potter’s t-shirt up higher and slides his hands down. 

“Let me, Harry,” he says. Potter’s flat stomach ripples; he hesitates. Draco swallows and presses his cheek to Potter’s, breathes it directly into his ear. “ _Let me._ ”

He covers Potter’s tight grip with his own. Potter nods and exhales. His cheek is damp with tears, though whether they’re from the deepthroating he just took or whatever's going through his mind, Draco can’t tell. But he releases himself, bringing up his hand to rest on Draco’s bare hip, and Draco winds his fingers around the thick length of Potter’s cock, matching the same pressure Potter was using, and starts jerking him. Potter’s hips twitch helplessly, and Draco increases the pace, gliding Potter’s foreskin down over the sopping wet head of his prick, twisting his grip when he drags it back. Draco’s softening cock jerks in response to the sounds Potter makes, hungry, broken little groans, Draco’s own name muttered in a rough voice. He wants to go down on Potter, wants to suck him off, to taste him, but he’s afraid the awkward transition of their position in the tight space of the tent might break the spell that allows them to focus only on each other, so he echoes the bite Potter left on his jaw and cups Potter’s balls with his free hand, squeezing them in a gentle roll as he moves his hand over Potter’s cock. 

“Want to come on me, Harry?” he asks. It feels good to use Potter’s first name — here in the dark, they don’t have to be who they’ve always been to each other — and even better when Potter lets out a low gasp, and jerks into Draco’s fist. 

“Yeah. Draco, _yeah._ ”

“I want you to,” Draco says quietly. Potter’s cock throbs, drooling out more precome over Draco’s fingers, and Draco darts a lick against Potter’s earlobe. “Think about how my face would look, covered in your come. Can you see it?”

“ _Uhh_ , fuck, Draco—” The hand on Draco’s waist gets briefly tighter, then runs up and down along Draco’s side, gripping and releasing him, palming his arse, finding his nipple through the dark. “I’m— I’m gonna come, oh fuck, fuck, all over your face, that feels—” Potter's audible gulp gives testament to his dwindling control, and though Potter came with him last night, Draco feels the loss of not having paid proper attention. 

He does now, swiping his hand along the almost imperceptible curve of Potter’s shaft so fast his arm starts to tire, twisting his fist over Potter’s glans. He wants to memorise it, the way Potter’s body curls toward him, the way his cock grows impossibly harder, the noises that fall from Potter’s mouth. Potter grabs Draco’s arse and hauls him flush with a stifled grunt, trapping Draco’s hand between them when it happens, and Draco clamps his hand around Potter’s cock over and over, stroking along the underside with his thumb to coax out each spurt of Potter’s come. It hits Draco’s stomach, his hip, drips over his hand, and Potter shudders against him for several seconds, then slumps with one final, weak rut into Draco’s fist. 

This time, reality intrudes more quickly. Draco’s half-hard again by the time Potter finishes, but his desire takes second place to the new rigidity to Potter’s shoulders, to the stiff, uncomfortable way Potter releases Draco’s arse. Draco lets go of him too. He moves away and sits on his heels. 

Cleaning up is done with a wordless back-and-forth pass of Potter’s wand, and Draco pulls his pants and joggers back up as he hears Potter tucking himself away. They stretch out side by side, but Potter could be halfway across the earth for all Draco feels his presence, despite the unavoidable way their bodies touch, so he startles when Potter speaks. 

“We shouldn’t… We can’t, whenever...” 

Draco turns his head to study him. Potter’s features are unreadable. 

“When—”

“Out there, I mean,” Potter says. “It’s too dangerous. It’s dangerous _here_ , but—”

“Yeah.” 

“I need to be able to focus,” Potter says, taking a long pull of air. “If we’re—” His voice sounds odd. Muted. Like he’s both forcing himself to speak and trying not to. “I won’t be able to.”

“Yeah,” Draco says again. He rubs a hand over his hair. He probably looks a mess. It feels like he does, though part of that comes from the shaky uncertainty pulsing through him in the aftermath of sex, his mind stuck on the way nothing seemed to matter but his release, and Potter’s, the way the smell of sweat and arousal had blurred out the pain. Draco hasn’t even heard her voice today. He swallows. “Does that mean—?”

He cuts himself off, unsure what the end of that question might be. Potter rolls to his side to face him and he rests a light hand on Draco’s hip. 

“We can’t talk about— certain things out there, either,” Potter says. He clears his throat. “ _I_ can’t, not about—”

“One eighty-eight,” Draco finishes for him. Potter’s silent. He slides his hand over Draco’s groin, splaying his fingers there. Draco pushes into it and says, “Or my family being…” He takes a deep breath. “Or— Or Pansy.”

Potter inhales — softly, sharp. After a moment, he pets over the shape of Draco’s flaccid cock. “Only in here,” he says. “We can do anything, in here.”

Pansy. Draco lets her name run through his head, somehow able to survive each stab of pain it brings when accompanied by Potter’s touch. Pansy, his darling. Pansy, who pretended she’d outgrown her love of pink so she would be taken seriously, but who managed to wear it nearly every day with the lace and satins between her clothing and her fine skin. Pansy, who always knew how to make him laugh, who’d never once let him down. 

Pansy, who used her last breath to protect him. To tell him she loved him.

“Yes. Pansy, who saved you,” Potter breathes in his ear, and Draco realises he’s been speaking aloud. Potter’s fingers continue their exploration, but they’re— gentle. Unhurried. Potter says, “You can tell me about her.”

Draco puts his hand over Potter’s and applies pressure, his chest a jumble of conflicting needs. “What will you tell me?” he asks thickly.

Potter pauses. He flips his hand and presses his knuckles to Draco’s hardening cock, folding his fingers around Draco’s own. 

“Whatever you want,” he says. “Here, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”


	8. Romans 8:25

“Fuck!” Draco is barely able to stifle the curse so it comes out breathless rather than the yell he’d intended as Harry knocks him back. He trips over a piece of rotting fence wood and catches himself before falling, fingers curling around the hilt of his weapon instinctively. Harry orders him to stay back, says he’s got it — and he does, much as it galls Draco not to step in. To even wonder if he can, or could, if he had to. But it’s not a legion of death; it’s two lone Inferi, their movements oddly lagging compared to what Draco’s observed of their swiftness before. 

Harry dispatches the first without difficulty, its large, jiggling arm, nearly purple with post-mortem bruising, falling harmlessly to the ground even as it reaches for him. Then Harry swings his machete in a wicked arc to the side, inward, a hard slash _up_ and _out_ , putting more force into the swing than is perhaps necessary, because the thing’s head, once severed, goes flying from its body, and lands with a thud several feet away. It’s somehow all the more brutal for how bloodless it is, how silent. 

The woman, coming from a different direction, seems to be somewhat more determined. Her eyes are as milky white as her thinning hair, her lips ragged as though she or her maker chewed them off. It shapes her mouth into a grotesque smile, and Draco can’t look away when Harry cleaves her hand from her arm. The slant of her eyes shifts to Draco, and she swipes out with her other arm towards him, then pulls back, Harry’s weapon whistling harmlessly through the air. It looks like a deliberate feint with the way Harry’s rhythm stutters as he’s forced to pull back on the swing, and Draco can’t shake the feeling that she’s _looking right at him._

He doesn’t say anything. To say something would be to distract Harry, and though this one’s more like the Inferi from the hotel who’d tested the door strength, Harry is— well, who he is. He recovers himself quickly and flips the handle in his hand so the flat of the machete rests along his arm; he ducks under another swipe of her clawed hand; he jerks his arm back and up. His aim is either flawless or lucky — Draco wagers both — because the tip of the machete pierces the soft flesh under her chin. With a grunt, Harry twists his hand and applies pressure, and then the point of steel is splitting through the top of her skull, covered in dark, sticky brain matter. Her body twitches, once, and sags, and Harry barely has time to yank the machete free before she crumples, a danger no more. 

Harry crouches down, wiping off his weapon on the soft grasses underfoot. “Go ahead, say it.”

Draco swallows. “I told you so.”

The first time he’d issued an objection, Harry had given him a hard look before simply nodding and circumventing the commune he’d originally routed them through. He hadn’t even asked why, not that Draco would have been able to explain if his life depended on it, not then. The second time, Draco voiced his objection with a bewildered apology: It was only a collection of four or five houses, after all, with a tiny petrol station on the road leading to it, why _shouldn’t_ they go through? 

“Is it just fear?” Harry’d asked, and Draco had shaken his head, though he didn’t lie and say he felt none. Harry shook his head back. “Then we’ll avoid it. A feeling’s a feeling; sometimes you have to trust them.”

But this time Harry’d been insistent over Draco's protestations, eyeing the dilapidated house — obviously deserted long before the siege — before declaring he wanted to check it out. 

“Yes, but why?” Harry finally responds, slotting the machete back into his scabbard and approaching. “How did you know?”

Draco sucks in a breath. Harry’s eyes are glinting, his gaze sharp and curious. He’s close enough that Draco can smell — can practically taste — the now-familiar salty sheen of sweat on his neck. Draco closes his eyes and blindly finds Harry’s waistband with one hand. He curls his fingers into it, his knuckles pressing over the silky line of hair trailing down Harry’s stomach.

Harry makes a soft, intrigued sound. Draco opens his eyes, gaze drawn to Harry’s smile, slight and humourless, and to the throb of his pulse visible in the hollow of his throat. It takes effort for Draco let go, to drop his arm back to his side. After a prolonged beat, Harry steps away. Resumes walking. Over his shoulder, his voice is a little rough. “We’ll stop early tonight.”

Merlin. Draco takes a gulp of air and lengthens his strides for a few paces until he catches up. They’re usually more careful than that, only touching when it’s necessary: a leg up over a dead-ended wall, a full-body press when they’re hiding, checking each other for injuries. Whatever’s happening between them in the tent works well enough as a coping mechanism, but Harry, as it turns out, was smart to establish boundaries, because it’s a fucking distraction, too. An indulgence. One that belongs nowhere near their journey; one that, by definition, seems to work _because_ they take care to separate it from everything else. 

“Why did you insist we check?” Draco asks before addressing Harry’s question. “The house was practically falling apart at the seams. It looked like something a Weasley would build. What did you expect to find?”

Harry huffs a snort at the Weasley bit, giving him a sidelong glance as if to say Draco might want to watch his step. Draco shrugs without apology, because it’s not untrue; Weasley homes have always seemed to have a slight wobble to them, however well-fortified with magic they might be. 

“I expected to find out whether these ‘feelings’ you keep getting had any basis,” Harry admits. The wry curve of his mouth fades and he presses his lips into a flat line, looking disturbed. “Care to explain why they do?”

He’s patient after he asks, giving Draco time to consider his answer. 

“I think… two things,” Draco says cautiously after several minutes. The dirt road Harry’s led them to is dry, and sends up flurries of dust around them with each step they take; it doesn’t take long before Draco feels caked in the stuff. “The first is that, to study the Veil, you have to learn how to attune yourself with those who’ve crossed it. To intercept their… call,” he says, a little flustered by the flat, steady look Harry gives him. “They warn you that the skill might linger. As I understand it, those of us who continue our studies in the Death room, the ability to sense the dead becomes a constant thing. A fleeting sensation when they pass a graveyard, or when they touch a precious object belonging to someone recently dead. I’ve never felt it before, but it's possible I have some latent sensitivity to it?” he says, accidentally making it a question because he really can’t be sure. 

Harry nods a little. “Okay. What’s the second reason?”

“That second Inferius.”

“The woman,” Harry prompts, when Draco doesn’t go on.

Draco takes a breath. “Did you notice that she— it—”

“Looked at you?” Harry squints at the road ahead, a grim note coming into his voice. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“Right.” Well, isn’t this fucking wonderful. More than a little, Draco'd been hoping he'd imagined it. “I think… I think blood purity is a factor.”

“Christ, not that again,” Harry says with a grimace. “I had to become the Master of Death last time to deal with that shit.” A muscle near his eye twitches. 

“Ah, yes.” Draco exaggerates his glance around them. “I think you might need to work on that. Seems you’ve overshot a little.”

Relaxing, Harry chuckles and cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. But rather than explaining his puzzling statement, he asks, “What makes you think that?”

“The millions of dead people walking around,” Draco says, adding a bitchy inflection to his tone, simply because the sound of Harry’s laugh never fails to surprise him; it acts as its own sort of puzzle that Draco has yet to work out in his mind. “I might have begun the experiment at a few hundred thousand, if you were so curious.”

Harry doesn’t laugh again, but he does glance at Draco with a lopsided little smile that almost exactly matches the tilt of his glasses before he absentmindedly straightens them. “Malfoy.”

Draco sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, good humour deflating. “I’ve been thinking about what I saw at the hotel. That, um. The first night. And since.”

The silence that greets him is heavy, long. Draco chances a look to Harry and finds him brooding at the path before them, head lowered, thick eyebrows notched down.

Quietly, Harry says, “Is it something we should talk about tonight?”

Again: a zip of arousal, of awareness. Draco shakes it off and clears his throat. “No, I— No.” 

They come to a fork in the path, one trail narrower and unpacked, barely visible through the undergrowth, the other leading toward a more well-worn lane that Draco can see, in the distance, will bring them back to the main road they’ve been following. Harry pauses, an inquisitive air about him, and Draco realises he’s waiting for Draco’s opinion on which way they should go. 

“I don’t know,” he says, unsettled. “I don’t… feel anything.”

Harry chooses the wider path. “I wonder if there’s a trigger,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t seem to expect an answer, so Draco shrugs and moves on.

“At the hotel, I saw…” He clears his throat again; talking about something while trying not to think about it too closely makes him tired, and regardless, he’s been over it in some detail — and at length — for the last few nights. “Well, you know what I saw. So a lot of this is perhaps supposition, but… The people on my team,” he says carefully, “had a mix of blood statuses. Of those I saw go down, one was a Muggle-born witch who was— killed outright. One was a half-blood whose change overtook him in under thirty seconds. And the third was able to—”

“Fight it, a little,” Harry finishes for him. “For long enough.”

Draco nods, throat too tight to comment. 

“Huh.” They walk for a few more minutes, the heat of the midday sun battering down on the back of Draco’s neck. Then Harry says, “My team members were, yeah, also a mix. A few of them were turned, others just killed. It never occurred to me that their blood statuses might have some bearing on which.”

“And?”

“The Muggle-borns didn’t reanimate, that I saw,” Harry says, frowning.

“That one you killed just outside Paris. I think she was headed for me,” Draco admits. “It felt like she was.”

Harry stops so abruptly, Draco’s taken a few extra strides before he realises it. He turns around, tensing at the struck expression on Harry’s face. A strange foreboding snakes through him, pitting in his stomach.

“What?”

“Maybe— Maybe you can sense them because they can sense you,” Harry says. His tone is detached but there's a disturbed crease to his forehead. “If they’re drawn to purebloods. They congregated in the wizarding section of Paris; maybe they’re acting on orders to collect purebloods, and it creates some sort of internal alarm in them.”

“Oh,” Draco says faintly. “Lucky you’re with me then, I suppose.”

Harry’s huff of amusement this time is slightly strangled, wild. He scrapes the flop of his fringe away from his forehead distractedly and suddenly walks up to Draco, laughter cutting off as though it never existed, face grave. “You have to stay close to me.”

Draco opens his mouth. Closes it. He studies Harry as he gathers his thoughts, then says, “I hadn’t planned on wandering off.”

“I mean it, Malfoy. From now on, I don’t want you out of my reach, do you understand? Where you go, I go,” he says, so serious Draco’s breath hitches. “You’ll come with me while I place traps instead of staying behind to set up camp; if you have to go to the bathroom, you’ll bring me along and stay within sight of me, and vice versa.”

“How wonderfully deviant, Potter,” Draco manages, forcing a smile to fight off the prickles of sensation determinedly climbing up his spine, disturbing as a nest newborn spiders. “If you’d let me know that’s what you were into, we could have—”

“ _Draco._ ”

Draco swallows. “Yeah.” He focusses on Harry’s chin for a moment, dark with stubble so thick it borders on a beard. “Yeah, I understand.” 

And really, he’s afraid he does. His presence has made their journey, already fraught, twice as hazardous as it might have been otherwise. He understands perfectly — and yet, not enough to provide any real solutions. 

“Maybe you should—”

“Don’t,” Harry says, taking him by the elbow and edging in closer, gaze fierce. “Don’t even suggest it. I’m not leaving you behind.”

Draco looks away, gritting his teeth. If the last month has proven anything, it’s that he’s not a self-sacrificing sort of wizard. He’d not even suggest it, if his own iron streak of pragmatism didn’t insist. “I know I might be able to help at Hogwarts. But—”

“But nothing. _I’m not leaving you behind_. And I’ll get myself killed trying to find you if you’re mad enough to try taking off on me,” Harry says, grip tightening to the edge of pain. There’s nothing but a hair’s breadth between their bodies, and warmth emanates from Harry, attracting Draco despite the uncomfortable waves of heat pounding down on them, despite the anger on Harry’s face. Draco shivers and meets his eyes. Twenty-eight years on earth, and Draco’s never seen that shade of green anywhere else. 

“You’re— Hermione needs you,” Harry goes on after a fractional pause. He blows out a breath, gaze sliding over Draco’s shoulder. “That’s the only way I can help this time, that’s what my skills are good for here: to get you to her. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll get you there. I _will._ ”

“Okay.” Something unpleasant twists in Draco’s midsection, a matter to be thought on later. He nods. “Okay, Potter. I’ll follow your lead.”

True to his word, Harry shadows Draco for the rest of the afternoon. Unspoken rules out the window, he keeps touching Draco, one hand straying to the small of Draco’s back, to his hip or arm or shoulder time and again as if to reassure himself that Draco’s physically present, despite being able to see him, despite walking alongside him. It’s overcompensation, in Draco’s opinion, no matter how worrisome their new perspective of danger is. And it’s no small amount mortifying when Harry twice follows through on standing sentry as Draco has a slash, near enough for Draco to touch; the conscious lack of privacy makes even what’s become commonplace feel different. But his presence isn’t unwelcome for all that. Draco feels jittery, discombobulated by the idea that he’s being actively hunted. It puts him on the defensive.

“Going to dig a hole for me when I need one, too, Potter?” he asks, zipping up his flies. 

Harry shrugs. “Probably just watch you do it,” he says, though Draco’s gratified to note that a faintly embarrassed stain blotches his cheeks. “I’ll turn around so I don’t see anything. Walk a circle around you.”

“What joy; I’ve long thought the act of taking a shit could be improved by doing it centre stage.”

“I wish I could say I was more surprised, Malfoy,” Harry says, snickering like a schoolboy when Draco scoffs and blushes. He touches Draco’s shoulder, swift and featherlight, then drops his hand to point. “We’ll stop in those trees for the night.”

The sun is lower in the sky, and not yet setting. It can't be half four. But Draco doesn’t argue. Doesn’t _want_ to. Harry’s voice has taken on a rasping quality Draco’s body identifies before his mind does and the small hairs on the back of his neck rise; his cock fattens. He regulates his breath and assists Harry wordlessly. 

Set-up doesn’t take much longer, though Harry refuses to separate — with four hands rather than two on each task, everything is accomplished with a minimum of fuss. Harry uses the portable hob to heat up the bird he caught in one of his traps that morning before they set off, still fresh enough from the gentle stasis Draco cast around it. 

“Hermione’s message,” he says, tearing off a strip of sizzling meat from his portion. He winces, tosses it from hand to hand, and then blows on it lightly before popping it in his mouth.

Draco pointedly waits until his own piece is no longer steaming. “Is that a question?”

“More than one,” Harry says. He licks at the shine on his upper lip. 

“I thought you said you’d use that coin of yours to let her know we hadn’t figured it out.” Draco tastes his own dinner, swallowing a moan along with the imprudently-sized bite he’s taken — it’s rich with fat, salty, and he shoots Harry an appreciative look as he begins eating in earnest. 

Harry grunts. “I will if I have to. But I think the timeline she gave us was significant. I’ve been wondering if activating the coin before that deadline could put everyone at Hogwarts in danger. I know they’re monitoring their magic usage because anything over a certain amount is a risk to the wards, and the coin uses a lot of energy. I think she’s got some defensive magic woven into it.”

That makes a certain amount of sense. The most sturdy types of magic are a combination of spellwork strengthened by a complicated base, and defensive magic has some of the more complex components: memories, mood, heightened emotions like fear. Harry’d allowed him to examine the coin, and its magic was so impressive Draco had been disappointed by his inability to break down its nuances without the proper tools. 

“So we’ll contact her tomorrow then?” Draco asks. It seems anticlimactic.

“If we can’t figure it out before then.” Harry pairs his comment with an arched brow and Draco rolls his eyes.

They finish their meal in silence, Draco’s mind whirring with possibilities — most of them previously discarded. Harry’s expectation that Draco might determine what Granger’s message meant aligns with his own, and he finds it maddening that he hasn’t been able to. They’ve discussed it ad nauseum, throwing ideas back and forth, to no avail beyond avoiding the things they can’t talk about outside the tent. 

When their food is gone, they pack things away until every trace of their presence is cleared from the site, with the exception of their tent. They crawl into it and disrobe down to their pants. Harry casts a cleaning charm over Draco, then one over himself. 

The sun hasn’t even set yet. 

They look at each other. They don’t touch. It’s almost ritualistic at this point.

“What’s it to be tonight?” Harry asks, sitting as far away as the tent allows — a negligible distance. They’ll make their way across it soon enough.

Draco pulls his knees up to his chest, ankles crossed. “Tell me about the Master of Death.”

Harry seems caught off-guard by the question, but after a moment takes a deep breath and starts talking. His voice is steady at the beginning, but his eyes go dark with same shadows they held when he mentioned it earlier, and Draco listens, heart pounding, as Harry relates what’s probably the bare bones of a story that still manages to be so fantastical Draco might not believe it if he hadn’t been witness to certain events. He averts his eyes from Harry’s face — it makes things easier, somehow — but shifts closer until they’re touching, and when Harry’s breath catches at one point, rests his palm over the jut of Harry’s shoulder blade. He maps the contours of Harry’s back, tight shifting muscle and smooth skin; he toys with the hair at the base of Harry’s skull. Harry’s voice drops abruptly.

“I’m tired of being responsible for the whole fucking world.”

“Yes.” Draco pauses, and when Harry doesn’t offer anything more, he lets out a shuddering breath and says, “I’m tired of paying penance to it.”

Harry darts a glance at his face, then away. Draco looks down at his hands, now curled in his lap. He can’t bring himself to elaborate. He hadn't known he was going to say it; even thinking it brings a guilty burn to his cheeks. Freedom from one’s past isn’t attainable, nor should it be in the case of a past like his, Draco knows. But admitting he wishes things might be different — that he might be able to openly enjoy a walk along Diagon Alley rather than maintaining a carefully neutral expression when he’s in public so as to not attract attention; that he’d not have to scrape to advance in his field; that any part of him misses being able to take his place in society for granted — isn’t acceptable either. It’s just as selfish as he’s always been.

“Draco?” Harry prompts after a few moments, gentle as the hands he’s running up and down the outside of Draco’s arms.

“I’m marked,” Draco says. Chokes. “I’ll always be marked.”

“Yeah.”

“By more than—”

“I know,” Harry murmurs. He guides Draco onto his back, cups his face in warm palms. His eyes are hooded, soft, and Draco relaxes under his weight, winding his arms around Harry’s back. He spreads his thighs, allows Harry between them. Harry’s prick is half-hard, swelling further as it presses against Draco’s, reviving his half-wilted erection. Harry rolls his hips lightly and uses his thumb to wipe away the moisture that streaks down Draco’s temple when he blinks. “I know you are.”

“Harry—”

“I’ll make you forget for a while,” Harry says. Draco closes his eyes, and lets him.

* * *

The mystery of Hermione’s message drifts back to Harry as the sweat cools on his skin, more frustrating for how urgent it feels. For nearly a week and a half it’s been festering, uncomfortable, unanswered, time like grains of sand sinking into a whirlpool as they peter out. Fifteen numbers he’s got memorised; fifteen numbers he can find no bloody use for. And then Draco, returned to the topic of Pansy, says, “We barely spoke for a year, after having called one another almost every day since we met. I’d thought— No, I didn’t really. But it was easier to pretend that I didn’t know how deeply her feelings ran.”

He continues, warm breath feathering the hair at Harry’s temple, one hand idly stroking over Harry’s replete, tingling bollocks and playing with his spent cock. Harry listens with half an ear, about how Pansy had laughed upon walking in on Draco with someone else, but then later said she needed some time to focus on work. About how much Draco’d wanted their affair to have been a lark, something he’d even convinced himself they might be able to revisit it on occasion once everything had stabilised between them. 

Selfish, he calls himself. It’s not the first time Harry’s heard that from him in the last few days. But Harry doesn't agree with Draco’s assessment of himself, even after his earlier revelation — a revelation of Harry's own. In Harry’s experience, truly selfish people don’t care that they are. Shame and guilt simply aren’t a presence in their lives, whereas Draco harbours an abundance of both. 

Harry can’t give Draco absolution for his misdeeds, but it’s… good to know how deeply Draco wants it. To be able to reframe his own understanding of Draco’s actions since the war. To simply… know him better.

It’s so good, Harry finds himself increasingly unsettled by it.

Because it feels relevant, Harry talks about Ginny when Draco’s done, and the dissolution of their too-quick engagement after six months of fighting. She loved him, she'd said, but didn’t want to marry someone who no longer loved her. Still mostly numb over a year after the war, Harry wondered whether or not he did. He'd thought he might not be able to love anything or anyone, anymore; even his friendship with Ron and Hermione had felt too cornered, strained. Funnily enough, it was Kreacher who finally broke Harry out of his emotional paralysis. Drunk and furious, sitting amidst the wreckage of his parlour after a fit of temper, he’d watched Kreacher begin righting the room, and Harry had thrown his t-shirt at him. But his snarl giving Kreacher his freedom had only been met with a long-suffering sigh and a croaky, “Magic does not be releasing elves when masters are being incapable of making decisions. But if Kreacher was being free, he would be staying and Master Harry would not be stopping him.” 

It was the first and only time Harry had cried since waking up in the forest — until recently — and Kreacher had patted him tentatively on the shoulder, just once, then resumed fixing the room. He doesn’t tell Draco any of that. Instead, throat constricted, he says, “I did love her, you know. I loved her. I just wasn’t able to feel it for a long time. It was like…” Harry hesitates, then pushes the words out. “...like when I died in the Forest, part of me was buried there, and I had to claw my way out of my own grave before I could live again.”

There’s a grim irony there, and Draco huffs an acknowledgement of it against his temple. His fingers dance over the hair on Harry’s thigh, and then he flattens his hand and strokes up Harry’s stomach. He traces Harry’s belly-button in the waiting silence, rolls one of Harry’s nipples between thumb and forefinger. His touch is light and unobtrusive, but a sensation Harry can fixate on, to get through the rest. 

“She wouldn’t even let me apologise. She deserved so many apologies, but wouldn’t let me. I pushed her away, like I did so many people back then,” he says, covering Draco’s hand with his own. Holding it. “I pushed her away and hurt her, and she told me she’d understood. I still felt— I still loved her. But she’d fallen in love with someone else by then, and I didn’t want… She asked me to stand for her at her wedding.” 

Harry’s long got over the pain of watching Ginny marry someone else, has got over his romantic attachment to her. But the memories of both linger, an ache he no longer resents. 

“I think if anyone could survive out there, it would be her,” Harry says rawly. “She’s…” Strong, he wants to say. He doesn’t — it feels like tempting fate. But he closes wet eyes, and hopes. 

They fuck again when the words and the tears dry up. Harry rides Draco’s thigh and wanks him until they’re both close, then rolls Draco onto his stomach. Draco goes freely, as though perfectly all right if Harry decides to mount him without discussion. They haven’t done that yet, but the very thought turns Harry on in a way that has nothing to do with distracting himself from his grief, so instead of just rutting against him, Harry palms Draco’s arse cheeks open and eats him out. At the first touch of his tongue, Draco holds his breath on a quickly-drawn gasp for a split second, then pulls his knees under him and tilts his arse up. The sounds of his wheezing and Harry’s long, wet licks, the smacks of sucking kisses along Draco’s fluttering hole, are the only things that break the silence. And then Harry pushes his tongue inside, fingers dug so deep into the muscles of Draco’s arse that he’s sure to leave bruises, and Draco whimpers, Harry’s name falling from his mouth like a prayer. He fucks into Draco with his tongue until Draco comes into his own hand, then pushes him back down onto his stomach and works his cock back and forth between Draco’s trembling, spit-slicked cheeks to find his own release. 

“Good?” Harry asks breathlessly, after, when their clothes are back in order and the only evidence of sex left is the musky scent that permeates the tent. 

“Yeah.” Shadowed, Draco plumps his jacket a little and settles with a jaw-cracking yawn. “You?”

“Yeah.” This is when they normally go to sleep, but the thought nagging at Harry for the last hour comes back, and he debates whether or not to say anything. 

“What is it?” Draco asks, body filled with subtle, waiting tension. 

“I had a thought about Hermione’s message,” Harry says. “It’s—” _Nothing_ , he almost adds. But he can’t.

It’s not nothing, and the more he stews on it the more convinced he is that he’s right. 

“Tell me,” Draco says. 

“Only—” Harry sighs. There can’t be any help for it; what is he supposed to do, leave Draco alone after what they might have figured out? That wouldn’t be an acceptable solution even if it turns out the Inferi _aren’t_ drawn to him. “What you said, about how you and Pansy used to call each other every day…”

Draco pushes up on his elbow and reaches over Harry, flicking the lamp on. His brow is furrowed, his lips pursed tightly. A month ago, Harry would have thought he was scowling, but he knows better now, knows what faces Draco makes when he’s running on his last dregs of energy or when he’s about to come, and what he looks like when he’s working something out, and this is definitely the latter. They don’t ask questions about their confessions. It’s a small kindness, Harry supposes, but it feels like an important one. Any of the things he’s said under the cover of night, told to Ron and Hermione, would be promptly followed by reassurances, by sympathy or pity or both, all phrased cleverly to lead Harry to the conclusions they’ve drawn. But Draco seems to understand what a balm it can be to wallow in self-recrimination, to hate himself for things done and not done, just as Harry does. They talk and they fuck and, in the dark, they find a way to let the darkness go. 

It may not be a perfect solution, may not even be healthy, but it seems to be working. 

“Yes. Floo, Owls. We still spoke at work, but—” He suddenly blinks, sits up. “You’re thinking she meant for us to use Muggle communications.”

“I’m almost sure.”

“A telephone?”

“A mobile,” Harry says. “There are too many downed lines for a regular telephone to be able to transmit a call, but I think satellites and towers were probably unaffected.”

Draco hesitates long enough that Harry opens his mouth to explain, but then Draco scrubs a hand over his face. “And how long do we have to find one?”

“It was just after nine in the morning she sent the message,” Harry says. “I might be missing something because I have no idea how she plans on taking a call from Hogwarts, but if anyone can figure that sort of thing out, it's Hermione.”

“Twelve hours then,” Draco says, giving him a long, even look. Harry fights the urge to break their gaze. Fights the heat rising in his cheeks. But he doesn’t really regret deciding to retire early, no matter how unwise it may have been. They could have easily covered a few more kilometres before calling a halt, could have perhaps taken the time to find a shelter further off the beaten path. But the last few nights have been such a convenient escape from the press of his thoughts — something Harry hadn’t realised he’d needed so badly. And Draco’s touch that afternoon, sweetly, unconsciously proprietary, had felt like a _summons_ , every muscle in Harry’s body tensing to stand at attention, blood rushing to fill his cock in a bare second. Nerves on high alert after hearing Draco’s suspicions, the need to break early had only increased throughout the day. 

The decision was a combination of factors, and some of those inarguably opportunistic, but Harry would make the same call if they had the day to do over. 

After a moment, Draco sighs. He doesn’t comment on the lost time — perhaps because he hadn’t complained about how they’d used it — but says, “Do we need to leave now? We could head back towards Amiens—”

“No. _No._ ” Harry wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist and pulls him back down. “It’s too late, and the risk of going into a city at night outweighs any possible reward, especially now that we know that... Besides, I don’t want to waste time backtracking.”

“It might have more Muggle shops and the sort than any other township on our route within walking distance,” Draco argues.

“Do you think whatever you felt about it would have disappeared in the last ten hours?”

Draco makes a disgruntled sound. “It’d be smarter, rather than looking for a mobile with only a few hours to spare. If we push, we might even be able to—” he says, still poised as though he’s about to rise and start getting dressed. He cocks his head. “What?”

Harry measures his exhale in seconds to slow the flip in his stomach. He looks up at the canvas top of the tent. He doesn’t want to know what expression he's wearing that provoked Draco’s question, not that he's able to answer anyway. Draco’s right. They _should_ set off as early as they can, immediately perhaps; common though mobiles are now, there’s the chance it could take them too long to find one. But Harry can't shrug off how disquieting it is that Draco so effortlessly comprehended the pattern of Harry’s thoughts, and how, for a moment, satisfying that felt. 

“Nothing,” Harry mutters. “Besides, we’re not going to be looking for a shop.”

There’s a thoughtful silence before Draco comes down to the pillow of his jacket, tucking his hand under his cheek. He says, “Tell me what we’ll be looking for.”

“Cars,” Harry says matter-of-factly. He turns onto his side, ignoring the tenderness of his shoulder. ”Some houses, maybe. Most everyone has one.”

“A portable Floo,” Draco muses. “So people could find you anywhere? That doesn’t sound especially appealing.”

“But convenient. And entertaining,” Harry says. He understands the craze, at least a little. The mobile he bought last year to talk to Dudley and keep in contact with the Metropolitan police commissioner had been fairly impressive until he loaned it to Arthur a few months ago. His new one has fewer bells and whistles and is resting, he thinks, in the drawer by his bed in Grimmauld Place. But Draco looks unconvinced; Harry nudges him, hiding a smile. “You should invent one for the magic world. Isn’t that what you do?”

“Yes, I spend all of my time making sure my superiors will be able to contact me on the two hours off I get each week,” Draco says, lips twitching. Harry huffs a laugh, and Draco looks pleased which, in turn, warms something inside Harry. Far too much. 

The air between them goes still, and Harry realises he’s been looking intently at Draco for some time, simply watching his face darken to a fetching pink and cataloguing the sweep of his lowered lashes. He sees Draco’s gaze drop to his mouth, and his throat runs dry. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. They just… don’t kiss. Haven’t. There aren't even any practical considerations preventing them from doing it, like there are for penetrative sex. It's just an indefinable boundary they seem to have set in place: this amount of intimacy allowed, and no more. As though giving in to want might be a declaration that this thing between them is more than a wartime bond, more than a timely outlet. Something they might want to explore if they have a chance. Harry doesn’t even know _what_ he wants, if he’s being honest. 

But that doesn’t stop the wanting. 

Draco’s hand lands tentatively on Harry’s hip, and Harry starts. He holds his breath as Draco slides it around him, to mold perfect to the dip at the small of his back. Draco fans out his fingers under the bottom of Harry’s shirt and the top of his jeans, palm warm and a little damp. Harry looks at him, arrested by the frown between Draco’s eyebrows and the way his gaze flits from Harry’s eyes to his lips. 

“Malfoy—”

Draco blinks and removes his hand, forearm flexing against Harry’s ribs as he reaches to switch the lamp off. Harry exhales, letting himself feel the burn of an unanswered question, and then locks the feeling away. 

“Besides,” Draco says over the soft rustle of him shifting and pulling their blanket up, “that’s only what I used to do.”

The hour before dawn is eerie, the light from their torch far flimsier than it feels when they’re in a relatively isolated space. They don’t talk until they’re well on their way and then only in whispers. Harry hasn’t been out with someone at his side when it was this dark since— Well. A topic preceding another fuck, perhaps. At least the moon, still hanging low in the sky, is almost full, though the mist of oncoming clouds obscures its light from time to time. The motorway they travel beside is dotted with abandoned vehicles, but Draco touches Harry’s arm when he first goes to approach one of them.

“The— the woman,” he says under his breath. “Outside Paris.”

Harry pauses. “We have to look,” he says at length. He gestures with the torch. “We’ll scan under and inside everything before opening any doors. Just stay close.” 

Their initial searches reveal no waiting Inferi, but neither what they’re looking for, though each car they pass gets systematically torn apart: the glove compartment, the boot, under the seats. It’s dirty, meticulous work that leaves them both dusty and discouraged.

“I thought you said people carry them around everywhere,” Draco says after a dozen cars, tossing an oil rag to the ground with a grimace, then slamming the boot of the car closed. The pale light of sunrise casts shadows over his bladed cheekbones, throwing his irritation into high relief. 

“They do,” Harry says, pushing up from the road where he’d been kneeling to search under the driver’s seat. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. “They carry them around like they’re sustenance and salvation rolled into one.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Draco says as they start walking again, “we’ve not found any bodies. All of the vehicles are empty; people have been running. Do you think they’d leave their one communication device behind, even if it wasn’t working at the moment?” 

“No,” Harry says, surprised. “Good point.”

“I know,” Draco says dryly. “Could you try not to look so shocked?”

“I could _try_ ,” Harry says doubtfully, snorting when Draco shoves him. He glances up to find Draco grinning, an easy, uncomplicated sort of smile that Harry returns without thinking and then has to look away from. He clears his throat and points to a small pile-up visible in the distance, aided by the crest of the sun above the horizon. “An accident.” 

They’ve passed a few of them by matter of unspoken accord, so it seems ghoulish to approach one now with the eager hope the wreck has yielded dead bodies to comb over. But he and Draco both speed up and lengthen their strides anyway, and find a dubious sort of luck: two of the four cars contain drivers, and one of those has a passenger as well. Draco hesitates, the high colour from their jog fading on his cheeks. 

“Why don’t you go through that one,” Harry says quietly. “I’ll take care of this.” 

Draco looks at him and gives a short nod. He starts with the car attached by way of twisted fenders to the one in front of Harry and Harry evaluates him briefly before turning to examine the unmoving bodies through the window. He opens the passenger door and coughs, gags, hastily pulling up the collar of his t-shirt to protect his nose and mouth from the stench, using one hand to stop the boy who starts to slide out. He is — _was_ — a teenager, Harry thinks, propping him back into the seat. He takes a deep breath and checks through his pockets. It’s unpleasant, and turns his stomach; it feels more than a little like gravedigging. The boy’s pockets are empty, but Harry spies a school bag resting on the floor between his feet, and carefully lifts it out so as to not jostle him more than he already has. Tucked into one of the front compartments is a small, boxy mobile with a hard plastic shell. Harry looks at it, blinking, and then tucks it into his jacket before checking the woman in the driver’s seat; she has one as well, an older model. Holding his breath, he tries the power button and finds himself unable to look away when the phone comes to life — with 84% of the battery left to use. He’s still turning it over in his hand when Draco joins him.

“You found…?”

“Two of them,” Harry says. “And see? This one still has a charge; she had it turned off.”

“Then why the look.”

Harry shrugs. Tries to put into words what wants to stick in his throat. “Hermione. Ron. I’ll be able to—” He barely recognises his voice for how hoarse he is, and he shakes his head, swallowing convulsively, until he feels Draco’s gloved hand rest on the back of his neck. Without looking up, he says, “Last night. I wanted to— I almost—”

_Kissed you,_ he nearly says, or maybe _Fucked you._ A meagre explanation of everything he's feeling and can't describe, hope and fear and pain, left unfinished because he doesn't know how it ends — or what might happen if he says it out loud. 

Draco inhales sharply, the pressure increasing on Harry’s nape. “You could’ve,” he says after a pause, as though the end of that statement doesn’t matter. “I wanted you to. So we’re both a right mess, aren’t we?” He gives Harry a light squeeze, and then his hand falls away. “Come on, Potter. Don’t want to keep Granger waiting.”

Despite the directive, Draco wanders to stand a few feet away. It’s close enough that, for the moment, Harry doesn’t feel the need to follow, and since Draco doesn’t seem to expect him to, Harry stays where he is. The phone is heavy in his grip, Draco’s admission heavy in his mind. _We’re both a right mess, aren’t we?_ They are, at that. Funny how often Harry’s made it to the edge of the world without realising that pieces of himself might have fallen off. 

Funny how long it’s taken him to acknowledge that they might be missing. 

He collects himself as best he can and joins Draco, who’s apparently decided he may as well pee, as long as he’s waiting. He shakes off and tosses Harry an arch look — with a little smirk that makes Harry, oddly, want to laugh— as he tucks himself away and zips up, and then hooks a finger into one of Harry’s belt loops. He gives it a gentle tug, releases it. “Now what?” 

Harry checks his watch, falling into step. “Theoretically we could wait here, but we might as well make some progress. Yeah?”

“As long as we can eat on the way.”

Harry locates the protein bars in the pocket of his jacket and passes two over, then opens his first, hungry; both apprehensive about heading out before dawn, they’d skipped breakfast. 

Tension keeps them quiet for the morning, which stretches out before Harry, as seemingly endless as the road they’re following. His measure of time lately has narrowed to grids on his map, or that of a thundering heartbeat in moments of peril or pleasure, but now he can’t stop himself from looking at his watch every five minutes, three, two, because each second that passes feels like a second closer to Ron, to Hermione. 

A second that passes feels, for the first time, like it might be a second closer to home.


	9. Ecclesiastes 3:5

“Mummy?”

Hermione glances at the clock, then at Rose, holding in a sigh. She’s been up for nearly twenty-four hours, attending to all of the loose threads that might jam the necessary flow of magic: scheduling the elves, allotting reserved food to be delivered to the dormitories and professors’ quarters, distributing orders for everyone to stay sequestered so as to not interfere with the spell, mapping out the route the call will take. That last had taken the longest and had been the most dangerous, a constant weave of movement outside the walls of the castle, the hungry eyes of the Inferi on her from behind the wards, their bodies tensing each time she allowed a slow, controlled seep of magic from her wand. She’s tired and too awake, impatient for and simultaneously dreading the minutes when Harry is supposed to call — because what if he doesn’t? Then it will all have been for nothing. The guilt that floods her at Rose’s voice is an unwelcome addition, and Hermione has to work at not snapping at her for interrupting.

“Yes, Rose?” Hermione closes her book, extraneous reading at this point as she’s got most of it memorised, and waves her daughter over. Rose, still in her nightgown, hesitates under the arch that separates their parlour from Hermione’s office, then pads up to her in slippered feet. “What is it, darling?”

“Will you be gone again today?”

Hermione pauses. It occurs to her that this is the first time she’s spoken to either of her children in well over a day, although she checked on them in their beds when she returned to their rooms last night. She swallows. “Just this morning. You remember what I told you, right? What I’m doing, what you’ll need to do?”

“Stay inside,” Rose parrots promptly, “so you can talk to Uncle Harry.” But then her lower lip pushes out. “I want to talk to Uncle Harry too!”

“I know, but—” Hermione looks around helplessly, a useless habit. It had taken years until she'd been able to stop comparing her mothering skills to Molly's, to silence that internal voice telling her she wasn't good enough. Years to accept that no mother was perfect, and that she wasn't a failure if, in this, she didn't have all of them answers. But those old insecurities burst forth now, a dam weakened by the erosion of pain. 

Ron’s always been the one who'd known how to coax Rose out of a strop. Only Ron isn’t there to rescue her, not there to alleviate the burden of parenthood, not there to throw her a smile. Not to make an inappropriate joke that she’d be unable not to laugh at, or tuck her against his long, comforting frame. Ron’s not there, and she’s alone, and she doesn’t know what to say to calm the brewing mutiny in her own daughter’s face. 

“Mummy?” Rose steps closer, tilting her head, some of the anger fading from her expression. She chews on her lip. “Are you— are you okay?”

Hermione blinks away her tears and forces a watery laugh. She fingers Rose’s plait, resting over her shoulder. “Yes, love. I’m simply— tired.”

“Me too,” Rose says quietly. She shifts her arm, and Hermione realises she’s holding onto the stuffed unicorn Ron got her for her third birthday, when Hermione had wrongly insisted she’d prefer books. Its charms are defunct now, either from the initial drain of magic from when this nightmare all began, before Hogwarts got its wards up, or from how the Unspeakables and staff have been collecting what’s left of it. The unicorn is limp, held fast to Rose’s side; Hermione wishes she could justify borrowing some from an elf to bring it back to life. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“ _Oh._ ” Hermione breathes the word out, then collects Rose to hold her close. She smells like baby powder, like the shampoo that comes out of the plastic dragon’s mouth in a puff of multi-coloured foam. Kissing the loose, curling tendrils of hair around Rose’s face, she says, “No. No, my love. You’re not a bother. I wish I could— do so many things. I’ll see… I’ll see if I’m able to find a way to let you talk to Harry another time,” she murmurs, aching even as she promises herself that it’s not a lie. She can see; she can do that much. Framing Rose’s face in her hands, she finds a genuine smile from somewhere within, and Rose returns it tentatively, then more easily. There’s so very much of Ron in her. Hermione takes a deep breath and kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry if I hurt you by making you think you could _ever_ be a bother.”

“You din’t mean to,” Rose says innocently. Hermione doesn’t know whether that exoneration of her parenting skills makes it better or worse. Rose meets her eyes, a subtle tension flickering over her features. “You— you always say never to hurt anyone on purpose…”

It sounds almost like a question. Troubled, Hermione kisses her forehead once more. “That’s precisely right.”

Rose exhales, nodding into her kiss. She leans into Hermione for several long seconds. Her body is slight but soothing, and she allows Hermione to rock her a bit in a way she seldom gets to anymore with Rose so active these days, so insistent that she’s grown. Perhaps she’s needed it as much as Hermione has. 

She pulls away at length, her dimple flashing when she peers back up at Hermione. “If I get all my maths done this morning, can I go see my friend later?”

“Of course. For a little while.” With a final kiss, Hermione releases her. Shoulders tight, she feels bad for sneaking another glance at the clock. Perhaps being good enough doesn't make her as acceptable a mother as she's been telling herself, if she’s unable to spare a few minutes with her child without letting distraction creep in. 

Fortunately, Rose doesn’t even notice. She tips Hermione a sunny little smile and scampers back in the direction of her rooms. The hem of her nightgown flutters a few centimetres above her ankles, and Hermione makes a mental note to take her shopping — if, that is, they're alive when this is over. 

Gathering up her files, Hermione makes way for the Hospital Wing. There’s less than an hour on the clock now, and though she tells herself she’s imagining things, she’s sure she can already feel the steady hum of magic seeping through the dark, aging stones of the castle once more. The Unspeakables said they’d begin spellwork early; it was necessary, in order to generate enough power.

The castle is quiet, supervised quarantine in effect. All of the children are accounted for, watched by either designated elves or professors to stop any errant and accidental magic that might disrupt the flow. Hermione opens the doors and reads herself the riot act as she heads for the Healing ward — thus far, all of their interactions have ended poorly: Narcissa silent and smug, Hermione frustrated and just as clueless. She knows she shouldn’t be surprised but, for the love of Merlin, she can’t figure out Narcissa’s angle. She can’t figure out why Narcissa refuses to cooperate, when her own son is in such danger. 

Still, the temper Hermione shows as a result of her low-bullshit threshold these days doesn’t really help matters. And she’s determined to do this right, to use the temporary upper hand she’s been given.

After a quick detour to set her files down in Poppy’s office, Hermione slips behind the curtain shrouding Narcissa’s bed. She takes a seat and waits, watching Narcissa, who doesn’t even deign to look up from her book. She’s been well-kept, and any normal person might show a measure of gratitude, but then, the Malfoys have never really been normal, have they? Never even approached it. Always haughty, no matter how low they’ve been brought. Always dangerous, no matter how defenceless they are. 

She hates that Harry’s out there, risking his life for one. 

Calmly fitting a bookmark between the pages, Narcissa closes the book and sets it aside. She folds her hands in her lap and regards Hermione wordlessly, an expectant eyebrow arching. Hermione wonders if a lack of soul is the reason Narcissa’s face remains so unlined at her age. It seems appallingly unfair that a woman who’s been witness to and responsible for so many atrocities should remain beautiful, when the last time Hermione saw Harry, she’d noticed he already had a few gray hairs hidden in the curls at his nape. 

Hermione allows the quiet to stretch out for a few minutes. She waits until Narcissa shifts — a small but restless movement — and then pulls the phone from her pocket. 

“Have you ever seen one of these?”

Narcissa’s eyes settle on the phone. It’s a 2007 Nokia, sheepishly offered to Hermione after a quick survey of the Muggle-born students. Mobile phones have been strictly forbidden from Hogwarts’ grounds since the explosion in Greenhouse 2 and subsequent loss of all of the Mandrake root and Dittany being harvested there back in 2005, but Hermione found herself ridiculously gladdened by the rule-touting in this case — enough to offer the Hufflepuff in question a hundred House Points, when and if they can get the hourglasses working again. It feels like a lifeline in her hand.

“No?” Hermione asks when Narcissa does nothing but slide her gaze back to Hermione’s face. “It’s a phone. Surely you’ve at least _heard_ of them.” She displays it, turning it over for Narcissa’s perusal, then smiles slowly. “I’m going to use it to speak with Harry today. And then I’m going to speak to your son.”

At that, Narcissa blinks several times in a row. 

Hermione smiles wider. “Would you like to speak to him too?”

Narcissa narrows her eyes for a beat. And then: “What a lovely offer.”

Hermione takes a deep breath to modulate the suddenly frantic pace of her heart. It won’t do to start crowing in triumph. “It was more of a question, actually.”

“Pardon me, Ms Granger, but I’ve attended enough negotiations in my day to recognise an offer when I hear one,” Narcissa says smoothly. There’s no trace of the rasp to her voice that would suggest this is the first time she’s spoken, and Hermione resolves to check with the elves later, to see if any of them have noticed her practicing; that could end up being useful. Narcissa gives her a benign smile. “The real question was left unspoken: What will I do for you to gain the privilege?”

* * *

Draco is the one to break the silence when the hour draws nearer, startling Harry out of his reverie. “Where should we stop?”

Guarding against the brightness of the grey sky with his hand, Harry scopes out the terrain. The morning is thick with clouds, portending the onslaught of bad weather — the air humid with it too, thick. It smells a bit like wet earth already, carried in on a breeze from wherever the storm’s already begun. Fortuitously, they’ve hit a spot on their route with nothing but land and sky around them for miles; Harry can’t even make out the shape of a car, in either direction. They’re likely safe where they are, but on the side of the road is a meadow, chaotic with overgrown weeds and grasses that droop in the heat, weary as Harry thinks he might feel, if he could let himself after so little sleep. Just beyond the meadow is a short, stone border that separates the space from a field of corn. The cornstalks look thirsty, their leaves an ashy teak from lack of attention, and not so tall as to indicate a place the Inferi are likely to congregate. He points.

Nodding wordlessly, Draco sets off through the meadow. Harry thinks once about warning him to watch for dangers lurking in the underbrush, but Draco steps carefully without being told, and after a moment Harry follows. They settle on the wall, the bags propped at their feet, and Draco says something that Harry doesn’t catch.

“What?”

“What time is it?”

“Oh.” Harry flushes. After doing this day in and day out, he ought not be so distracted; he _knows_ an absence of observation, particularly in an area he hasn’t familiarised himself with, heightens their already perilous circumstances. But his nerves are stretched too tightly. He shakes his head and glances at his watch. “Ten to nine.” 

“You don’t suppose she meant we’d need to call at exactly—”

“No, Hermione would have given us a cushion.” Harry hopes so, at least, given that neither he nor Draco can recall what time they left the hotel, to the minute. He shrugs off his jacket and pulls the bag of beads from his pocket, shaking one of them into his hand. “She asked if I still had these, so she meant for us to use them, but since the phone is charged I can’t think what we might need them for.”

Draco takes it. Rolls it thoughtfully in his palm. “Muffliato?”

“It’s defensive.”

“Are you sure? It’s still a mild enough spell that the beads—”

“Yeah,” Harry says tersely. He stares at his watch until the disturbing memory of Williams’ smiling face sinking in on itself fades. _If we use a Muffliato, shouldn’t we be able to go a bit longer, sir? The sun’s barely gone down._ That had been on the second night; they’d been on the road then, too. Williams had just turned twenty-one, was a cheerful sort of kid who’d been excited for the opportunity to be part of Harry’s team, though he’d got married only a few months prior — Aurors who worked under Harry had a tendency to advance quickly. Harry blows out a breath. “Yeah, I’m sure. We can’t use it.”

“The wards around Hogwarts,” Draco says abruptly. “They’re what disallow modern technology.”

“I know. Which is why—” Harry stops. Draco’s worrying his lower lip with his teeth, gaze on the bead in his open hand. He lifts his face to search the sky, and then reaches out to pull Harry’s wand from the holster strapped to Harry’s thigh. Without using magic, he taps several points into the air above them like one might to wring a tune from chimes. He hands the wand to Harry, the breeze picking up to tousle his hair. Behind him, the sky matches the colour of his eyes, wet grey and intense. 

“The wards,” he says again. “She’s got to be creating a pocket in them, a hole. Whatever signal the mobile sends will have to find it. She means for us to use a locator spell. Over the Quidditch pitch would be the most likely place. The wards extend higher there to allow for games, so they’re likely a little weaker, more malleable. Still, it’ll require a tremendous amount of energy if she’s to do it without shattering the wards completely. I can’t imagine where she’ll be getting that from, but if you really think she’ll be ready early, I’d call her now.”

Harry nods and reaches to take the bead back, but somehow instead covers Draco’s palm with his, the soft leather of Draco’s long, gloved fingertips brushing the inside of Harry’s wrist. For as much care as they take not to touch during the day, the craving is always there now, for some reason worse when Draco allows Harry glimpses at the way his mind works. Harry would wager half the contents of his vault that Draco was remembering the exact layout of Hogwarts, his face raised to the sky, Harry’s wand held aloft. He suddenly remembers spotting Draco once in Fifth year, cloak spread beneath him on the empty Quidditch stands as he’d laid back against them, circling his wand above him. Plotting something, Harry’d assumed — and was probably right.

Darting Harry an uncertain look, Draco keeps his hand out, a light, tantalising press under the weight of Harry’s. Like their bodies at night. Trembling. The improbability of the situation makes Harry want to laugh, that in this moment Draco Malfoy feels like all he has. That for all intents and purposes, that's precisely what Draco _is._ Even if Harry manages to get through to his friends, Draco is the one out here, in the thick of it with him. Before the siege, Harry’s circle of friends had grown to include other Aurors, people from the Ministry, dates with whom friendship rather than romance had bloomed. But like it’s been with Ron and Hermione since the war, there will never be another person from this catastrophe who understands Harry as much as Draco might, if Harry lets him. 

Draco swallows and shifts his gaze away, and the break in eye contact snaps Harry into focus. Face warming once more, he takes the bead. Swallows it. He taps the phone quickly with his wand and murmurs a location spell, then starts dialing even as he warily scans for movement around them and bears down on the internal, eager leap of his magic to contain it.

The ring is staticky, faint, and interrupted before it can finish. There’s a moment of silence. Then, soft and tinny: “Harry?”

“ _Hermione._ ” Harry stands without meaning to, a nervous, disbelieving movement. His throat works; his eyes are hot. “ _Hermione_ , oh my god, and is Ron there, can you both hear me—?” he starts, just as she says, “ _Harry._ I’m so glad you’re okay. Are you okay?” and then both of them are talking over each other with tremulous half-laughter, a swift gush of wonder and incredulity. She sounds on the verge of tears, her words coming so fast Harry can only half understand them until she pauses mid-sentence and draws in a breath. 

“Harry, Harry stop, we don’t have a lot of time,” she breaks in. “We’re drawing on elf magic right now, and I don’t want to injure them if I can help it.”

“No, right, don’t hurt them,” Harry says lamely, “but, god, I can’t—” He presses his knuckles to the hollows of his eyes; gets ahold of himself. “Ron, can I talk to Ron too? Am I on speaker? Draco and I have a suspicion, Ron will know how to access the Auror resources to see if we’re right, if he can get— Ron?” There’s another long silence, so long Harry pulls the phone from his ear to make sure the call hasn’t been cut off, almost dropping it in his haste to bring it back up when he hears Hermione’s voice.

“—rry?”

“I’m here, I’m here— did you go out for a second?”

“No, the reception is fine. I just—” Hermione clears her throat. “Ron’s busy, he’s— he’s in another part of the castle, and we have some things to cover before we hang up.”

“I know, I know. But—” Harry gulps in a breath, feeling strangely cold for a moment before he shakes it off. “Can you tell me who’s there? Who’s survived? Who— Who hasn’t?”

Hermione hesitates, her voice thick and conflicted when it returns. “Harry—”

“Please, Hermione. Molly, Arthur? Gin—” he says, going still when Hermione sucks in a hard, pained breath. Harry closes his eyes, hand tightening on the phone, an invisible blade slicing a path between his ribs. 

“Rose and Hugo are here and fine, and Molly and Arthur are alive as far as I know,” Hermione says in a quiet, measured way. “They’re holed up in the cellar of the Burrow, with George, Angelina, and Freddy, as well as Fleur and Victoire. Bill got them there. He didn’t make it.” She pauses to give him a moment to process that, then moves on, speaking brusquely. “Molly got a message to me by Owl that— the first night. Before the owls stopped flying. George and Angelina were already there, having dinner. They saw what was happening and locked themselves in just after Fleur arrived — they’ve got enough in her stores to last for months. I don’t know about Charlie or Percy.”

“Teddy? Have you heard from—” 

“I haven’t, but you know Andromeda,” Hermione says softly. “She would have had some warning, living so far from the city— we had about three hours before the wireless stopped working, and there were… reports...”

Harry nods, rubbing a hand over his face, spots of light dancing behind his eyelids when he presses his fingertips to them. Depending on what time that was, Andromeda would have heard any warnings issued; she allows Teddy to listen to fairytale programmes each night before bed. “What about the Ministry? Are there people working on… On how to _fix_ this?”

“It’s mostly fallen. Some Unspeakables made it here as the Floos were shutting down, a few Aurors and some Healers from St Mungo’s managed to get some patients here. We got a lot of people from the village. There’s very little outside help to be had, but we do have people monitoring what’s going on with the available magic. We’re working on it, okay?”

Breathing, Harry lets the weight settle over his shoulders, an ugly blanket, but one well-worn. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Harry…” Hermione makes an impatient, worried sound. “ _I’m_ not on speaker, am I?”

Harry glances at Draco, surprised. He’s still sitting on the wall but upright now, rigid. Watching. “No.”

“Can Malfoy hear me?”

A new knot twists itself in Harry’s stomach, his skin breaking out in chills. Company for the cold sweat already slicking the back of his neck. “No, I don’t think so.” He makes himself look casually around the meadow, then takes a few steps away. “What’s happening with— that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says. “Only that Ron was able to get Narcissa Malfoy here, and that it’s imperative Malfoy gets to the castle.”

“Wait, what? Why?” Heart thundering, Harry almost casts Draco another look before he catches himself. “How did Ron—?” He lowers his voice. “Why do you need…? Because of his job?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Hermione says again, an edge of frustration bleeding through the line. “Maybe. Maybe. But even apart from that, we could use him for…” She huffs, voice turning hard. “For leverage. Narcissa kept quiet for weeks; I only got her talking an hour ago. Harry… there’s reason to believe it’s crucial you bring him here, but you have to stay— guarded. The Malfoys, well. They’ve never been innocent, have they? And I don’t want you getting hurt for him. I know what your instincts will probably tell you in the moment, but you’re worth so much more to me, to everyone here. You.. We all may need to make some hard choices, do some difficult things.”

_No._

A ripple of shock works its way down Harry’s spine. Settles in the pit of his stomach. The word ‘leverage’ from Hermione in reference to a human life — any life at all — is unfathomable. That it’s regarding Draco induces a sharp, gnawing pain in his chest, a visceral rejection of everything her warning implies. “Hermione, I—”

“I believe in you, Harry.”

His hands are shaking. Harry breathes in, consciously steadies them, and moves on. “How do you know she knows something? Why did Ron bring her to Hogwarts?”

“I— He…” There’s a bit of static as Hermione trails off, as though she’s moving. Pacing, probably, and Harry can practically picture it, the quick clip of her strides, the nervous brushing-back of her hair. “We’re not sure, but there were, um, some papers indicating she… knows. Something. I negotiated a conversation in return for letting her talk to Malfoy—”

“A conversation about what?”

“I don’t know yet,” she says — too hurriedly. Harry opens his mouth, but she keeps going before he can say anything. “We _really_ don’t have long though, because I promised she could… But make sure you pay attention to how Malfoy reacts to whatever she says, _watch him_ , and then let me know when we talk again.” 

"For what? Is— Is there danger?" 

"In one way or another, I'm sure." There’s a subtle thread of panic in Hermione's voice, a hint of savagery like he’s never heard from her, and he can’t figure out what that means so he bottles up the questions crowding his throat and, as always, puts his faith in her. It’s enough to know she and Ron know things he doesn’t, whether or not they have time to explain.

It should be enough. It always has been before.

“Right. Yeah, okay.” His voice is hollow to his own ears, distant, the world around him rocked on its side. He thinks of Draco’s hand under his, and on the back of his neck. He thinks of the heat of Draco’s skin and the way Draco moves against him, then shuffles those memories to the furthest reaches of his mind and draws himself up. “When?” he asks, voice unwavering. “Am I supposed to call back—?”

“No, she’s here,” Hermione says breathlessly. Calmer. “I’m heading out of Poppy’s office right now. Malfoy’s with you, right? Close?”

“Yeah, he’s right here.” Harry hears him get up, hears him approach, but doesn’t turn. 

“Good, yes. Okay, listen: We might be able to— The elves, they’ve said they’d be willing to— They're going to help the Unspeakables here cause a small… _pull_ , I guess, a distraction, when you reach the Channel,” she says, sounding worried. “The map we have indicates they’re… well, it’s congested there, in and around the travel tunnels. But we're fairly sure the service tunnel is empty. We’d only need to clear the way enough for you to reach the doors. I can’t guarantee there won’t be any complications going through, but it’s the best way we can think of to get you across. How far are you from it?”

“I’m not sure. Some days we make more headway than others,” Harry says, ignoring the way Draco hovers at his side. “Another ten days. Maybe twelve. We have to be more circumspect than I'd like, even avoiding populated areas and cutting through the land.”

“All right,” Hermione says. “Call again in… in ten days to let me know where you are. Ten days from right now, and I’ll tell you when you can start through. I’m passing over the phone now. We’re running out of time, so he’ll have perhaps a minute or two to talk — and I’m putting it on speaker,” she says. It’s a reprimand, directed away from the phone. To Narcissa. Fuck, _what is going on?_ Hermione’s voice softens. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry says, looking out over the field. “And Ron. Rose, Hugo. And tell Ron— Tell him to be there for the next call, okay, and—”

“Here’s Narcissa.” Hermione pauses, then says, fiercely, “Take _care_ , Harry James.”

The edges of Harry’s vision blot out, and he makes himself inhale. He pries the phone from his ear, holds it out. “Your mum is at Hogwarts,” he says flatly. “She wants to speak to you; you’ll have about a minute.”

Draco takes the phone with a small, shocked bleat. Harry faces him, takes in the look of his white face. He wants to leave, to mute the buzzing in his head, to walk to the centre of the dying meadow and away from someone he can't help but trust, and _want_ — however unwisely.

But he makes himself stay to watch, because that was what Hermione said to do, and Harry… Harry does what needs to be done, no matter the cost to himself.

* * *

Stunned, Draco lifts the phone, eyes on the stiff, expressionless lines of Harry’s face. “Hello? Hello?” He’s only used one of these confounded devices once before, and that was for research. He can’t be sure it’s working properly until he hears his mother’s voice across the line.

“Draco.” 

“Mother?” It’s really her. Or at least it _sounds_ enough like her that Draco’s knees go weak. “What—? Why—?” He can’t think what to ask; he feels slow. Stupid. “Is Father with you?”

“No, my darling.” She says it so gently, Draco understands, even before she murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 

Draco backs up and sits on the stones again, shaky. “Ah.”

“Yes,” she says, with a small catch to her voice, a betrayal of her natural poise that denotes the depth of her pain. But when Narcissa speaks again, she sounds herself: “We go on, as we must.”

“Yes.” Still, the question slips out, voice cracking. “Did you see—?”

“We won’t talk about your father now, my love,” she says. Draco nods though she can’t see him, and takes off his gloves to rub his palms on his jeans in turn, one after the other, holding the phone with his shoulder. Narcissa says, “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

“No, _Merlin_ no. It isn’t. I’m so— I’m so glad you’re alive.”

He hears a little sniff. More warmly, she says, “How are you?”

“I—” A wild bark of laughter breaks, roughly, from his throat. “I’m— safe, as you said. Mum," he says, a thoughtless, aching address he hasn't used in more years than he can recall, "why are you at Hogwarts? Are you— helping?”

“Don't concern yourself, my love. We shall endure this, simply do whatever you must to make your way to my side _Whatever_ you must, do you understand? Harry—” There’s a momentary break in the line, static, and then, calm but urgent, Narcissa says, “ _Be careful, Draco._ You’re in great danger, and Granger—”

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione says out of nowhere, coolly but unable to hide her breathlessness. “Your mother had to go. Harry’s been keeping you well, I hope.”

“Put my mother back on,” Draco says, controlled, pushing down the rage bubbling in his stomach. A breeze whips past him, stirring the dry, withering leaves on their stalks. “ _Right now._ If you’ve hurt her, I’ll—”

“We haven’t,” Granger tells him, following it with a loaded, pointed silence that does the work for her. _Yet._

“What do you want?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” the bitch says. “But I’ve got to go, the magic is fading. Good luck, Malfoy,” she adds, an afterthought, before the call drops into dead space. 

_Good luck._

Draco stands and stalks over to where Harry waits, knocking into his bad shoulder before shoving the mobile into his chest. “What the fuck was that, Potter?”

Harry looks at him, still with that damned impenetrable expression, mouth drawn into the barest hint of a reproachful frown. “What did your mother say?”

“She didn’t get a chance to say much,” Draco says acidly, “before that cunt you call a friend took over the call so she could threaten me. And _her._ ”

Harry barely twitches, but he does look away. Finally. “How?”

“She—” Through his teeth, Draco says, “It was implied. But not _why._ ”

“Then maybe you imagined it,” Harry says, eyeing the road. “Either way, I wouldn’t know. Hermione only told me that she was there, and that she may have a way to get us through the tunnel at the Channel, so unless you’re planning to take me on,” he flicks a glance at Draco’s fists, clenched by his sides, “we should probably go.”

“My father’s dead.” Draco doesn’t mean to say it. 

“You already thought so,” Harry says. “So now it’s confirmed.”

Bastard. “Pardon me for not having had twenty-seven years to get used to the idea. Did you even lose any of yours?”

Harry clears his throat. Gives him a clipped nod. “Bill Weasley. Most of my friends in the DMLE, apparently.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Ginny.”

Draco swallows, his wrath deflating as suddenly as it overtook him. “Did she—?” 

“ _No,_ ” Harry says, pairing the word with a glare. Draco takes a step back and watches Harry move to retrieve their packs and his jacket. He returns, squinting at the sky, and says shortly, “We’ve got to go; there’s a lot of ground to cover, and it’s going to rain today.”

Harry begins walking and Draco follows along numbly, catching up to grab one of the bags from Harry’s clutch. The horizon is obscured by the rising wall of clouds before them, no shelter visible from the storm it seems they’ll have to weather. Draco awaits its onslaught with a detached sort of acceptance. It’ll be a distraction from the turmoil in his chest — a welcome distraction Harry doesn’t seem in the mood to provide, even if Draco could stomach the thought of being touched. 

He knows deeper concern for his mother will come later, but then— She’s always been more adept at taking care of herself, of things, than most people realise. Whatever Granger has planned, Narcissa will be four steps ahead, a regal queen on the chessboard simply awaiting her opportunity to move into position. But as for Lucius…

_Father._

It’s unexpected, the pain that sits heavy in Draco’s chest, like the weight of the air around them — hot, sticky. Uncomfortable. Something he knows he shouldn’t feel because in all truth, he lost his father more than ten years ago. But when Draco was a child… When he was a child, he’d ridden upon his father’s shoulders and felt a prince. And for too long, he’s nurtured the memories of Lucius’s indulgent smile, of a huge, warm hand cupping his cheek, of the soft brush of kisses over his forehead. 

_My son, my line. Never forget that you are better than the rest, Draco. As my issue, you are entitled to more, and I swear you will have it._ The fondness of his father’s touch remains as real and easily accessible as the pain he taught Draco later, his first _Crucio_ taken the summer after fourth year, _So you’ll know what to expect; the Dark Lord will arrive soon, and he is a brilliant but unforgiving wizard._ Even now Draco knows Lucius’s pain dovetailed his own, probably the only time in his life he felt troubled inflicting torture, and only then because Draco was his son. 

Draco loves his father, and therein lies the problem. To love someone you have every reason to loathe and fear, to think of them and remember a deep, booming laugh as they answered your childish questions, before everything changed— It’s something Draco has never been able to reconcile within himself. When Lucius returned from his sentence in Azkaban after the war, Draco thought it might be easier. But he'd been a shell, wasted and haunted and convinced every shadow was a ghost, more concerned with his paranoia than any lessons he ought to have learned. In the last few years, Draco’s shamed himself by coping through avoidance, the only defence left to him in the face of his internal conflict: Set up the vault to pay a caretaker, and then many caretakers; manage the expectations of your disapproving mother by asking after your father in letters; visit every month at first, then every two, every four. With each visit, Draco did his best to ignore his father's hateful rambling, until his skin felt in danger of crawling off his body. The reprieves were never long enough, but love and guilt brought him back time and again.

Draco wishes love could be banished with a quick spell. Wishes the long road before them didn’t feel like it should be accompanied by the strains of a funeral march. Yet, the perpetual resentment and disgust he's carried over the last decade, as it turns out, are not enough to assuage his heartache. Lucius had mastered the art of cruelty, that was certain. He’d also known how to love. 

He’d simply chosen madness rather than relinquish the former for the latter.

But Draco’s long wondered how things might have been different had Lucius not decided his priorities, his loyalties, so early in life. If he’d been willing to examine them more closely later on. 

On his mantlepiece at home, Draco has a photo taken in the quiet years of his parents’ marriage, before his birth. In it, Lucius and Narcissa are dancing, her head resting on his shoulder; in it, Lucius is looking down at the silk-bound twist of her fine hair with infinite tenderness in his eyes. 

Once upon a time, Draco thinks, his father could have been a good man.

Once upon a time, his father had carried Draco upon his shoulders, and made him feel like a prince.

* * *

Narcissa hesitates at the sound of the outer doors opening and closing. Shutting her book and slipping it under the others stacked on her bedside table, she listens intently for a moment, and finally hears the echoes of Granger’s distinctive, fast-clipped stride approaching. She folds her hands over her lap and waits and then Granger’s face appears in the window of her door. She gazes at Narcissa briefly, like a potioneer might study a rat, before letting herself in.

“Hello,” she says as Granger closes the door behind her. Granger pauses at the sound of her voice, so fractionally that Narcissa might not have noticed if she hadn’t been waiting for it.

“Hello,” Granger says calmly, taking a seat. “Comfortable?”

“Quite, thank you,” Narcissa says, gesturing to their surroundings. Really, the room she’s been moved to is little more than a prison — in practice, if not aesthetics — but it is relatively comfortable. A perk of being considered important, Narcissa supposes, whether or not Granger knows why, and much preferable to being locked in one of the damp, mouldering cells in the dungeon.

“So you’re still willing to speak,” Granger says. “That is, to someone other than your illustrious son.” 

“I’m amazed you didn’t become Headmistress sooner, with such powers of observation,” Narcissa says. She lifts her shoulders. “We struck a bargain. Did you believe I was lying?”

“Yes.”

Amused, Narcissa favours her with a small smile. “Well then, let me assure you how fully I plan on cooperating.” It's true. To a point, at least. Granger is already guarded; if she concludes Narcissa is no use to her, the repercussions might be extensive. “I did give you my word, which you may consider,” she widens her smile when Granger narrows her eyes, “near as reliable as an Unbreakable Vow. Although I do feel the need to point out,” she adds composedly, “that you didn’t live up to yours.”

Granger’s chair creaks as she shifts subtly. There’s something mutinous about the line of her jaw that reminds Narcissa of Granger’s daughter — though Rose has a much sweeter disposition.

“My word was that you would get to speak to your son,” Granger says, drumming her fingers against the arm of the chair. “Which you did.”

It’s a rather odd way of pointing out the difference between the spirit of a promise and its technicalities, particularly in this case, and that very thought seems to occur to Granger belatedly, for she flashes Narcissa a brief, professional smile. “And, as you heard, I scheduled another call. Which of course you can take part in as well, under the right circumstances.” She looks at the high window in the corner, barely big enough to fit an owl through. “I might not even make you take a Trustworthy potion beforehand, potion effects being so touch-and-go these days.”

“So I recall from your little attempt to use Veritaserum on me.” Narcissa spreads her hands. “Not that it would have worked, regardless.”

“What matters is that we’re working together now,” Granger says with a tiny smirk, sitting back. She crosses her legs and sets her hands in her lap, her pose elegant and relaxed. 

Narcissa _tsk_ s. “I sincerely pity you if you think that you were able to coerce me into doing your bidding when the Dark Lord was unable to, even after he'd taken roost in my home. Which is something I thought you might show more gratitude about.”

Granger’s eyebrows snap together; she clearly doesn’t appreciate the reminder that Harry Potter only lives now because of Narcissa’s actions. “I rather thought the testimony that kept you out of Azkaban would have shown the extent of my… gratitude.”

Dismissing the heavy irony in Granger's tone with an airy wave, Narcissa says, “That wasn’t your doing.” She ponders for a moment. “I wonder, is it a Muggle habit to take credit for someone else’s actions? You’ve been in our world for many years now, at some point you should allow for growth.”

“Thank you for the lesson,” Granger says tightly. She purses her lips. “But if you’re under the impression Harry would have testified on your behalf over my objections, you’re as mad your sister was. You know, the one my mother-in-law killed.” She huffs a soft laugh. “He’s not nearly as noble as you seem to think. He was still a little… upset, shall we say, at my account of what you did when Bellatrix was torturing me in your home.”

“That nothing I did?”

“Precisely.” 

Narcissa lets the silence seethe between them as they size each other up. That wretched night. There’s really nothing she can say that will change Granger’s perspective on it, and objecting to being lumped together with her sister can only hurt her cause. She can’t even allude to having wanted to lift a finger in opposition of Bella; the point was that she hadn’t, and wouldn’t have done even if the inclination had been there. Not with the Dark Lord on his way, not with Draco unable to escape — and perhaps not even then. 

“Watching Muggle-borns get tortured was a way of life for me at that point. If it makes you feel better,” Narcissa says, “I haven’t done it in years.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d wondered.”

“Wonder no more. What I wonder is how your dear Harry would feel if he knew that you touted him to be a mere instrument willing to carry out any orders you give.”

The tendons of Granger’s neck stiffen, ease. She says, “Why don’t we call him my dearest friend, first, and my instrument second.”

“You’re not going to tell him to hurt my son,” Narcissa says lightly. 

“Are you sure?”

Narcissa shrugs again, a graceful, contemptuous gesture she’s perfected over the years. The pureblooded wife’s version of the more common hand insult. 

“If you do, you wouldn’t have any authority left,” she says.

“But we’d still have you.”

“Ms Granger — may I call you Hermione? We really should be on a given name basis, so—”

“No you may not.”

“—Hermione it is, then. I believe you’re overestimating my value if you think I will do a thing to help you no matter the threat to my person, if Draco doesn’t survive.”

“Then you _can_ help.” Granger leans forward, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. 

Casting a frozen stare in her direction, Narcissa pivots. “What did that letter your husband wrote tell you?”

Granger’s lashes flutter rapidly and then she resumes her original pose, though Narcissa’s pleased to note her hands have balled up. “You weren’t reading over his shoulder?”

“How ill-mannered I am in your imagination,” Narcissa murmurs, lips twitching. In truth, she’d not been conscious enough, dizzy from the blast of Ronald Weasley’s magic slamming her into the Floo as the Inferi began converging on him. She can still feel it when she searches, a strange, hot knot around her magical core that shares too many properties with her own magic — but is unaligned, somehow — to make the knowledge of its presence very comfortable. It’s probably due to their distant familial connection. Narcissa prefers not to contemplate it, nonetheless. 

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply that,” Granger says. “I think you’re incredibly ill-mannered in real life, too.”

Narcissa bites back an inelegant snort. “Perhaps if I’d been raised in a barn and wore denim robes covered in chicken feces, you’d have a better opinion of me.”

Granger narrows her eyes. “Perhaps if you were half the witch or person or mother Molly Weasley is, I might.”

Half the mother and person Molly Weasley is. How terribly funny. Narcissa wonders how Granger might react if she were able to relay certain memories of Granger’s apparently canonised mother-in-law from school. Four years ahead of Narcissa and one ahead of Bella, Molly Weasley was one of the few Bella rarely bothered; they were too evenly matched and, to Narcissa’s memory, bullies both, though perhaps each a different sort. And nothing Narcissa’s seen in the years since has convinced her that Molly has changed a whit. Not the way she conducts herself in public, and most certainly not her mothering skills — that kind of lust for control doesn’t often fade over time, especially when one has never been forced to confront the validity of their opinions.

“Ah, is it possible I hurt your feelings?” Granger asks, arching her brows. She could do with a pluck, Narcissa thinks, irritated. Granger’s smug smile widens. “Is it possible you have them, for anything other than Draco?”

“No,” Narcissa says. She looks intently at Granger. “No, Draco is all I care for.”

“I see.” Granger’s lips part again, close. A question burns in her eyes, strain tightening the muscles around them, and her chest collapses inward, shoulders tense against the back of her chair. But whatever it is she’s wondering, she doesn’t allow herself to ask. With a small swallow, she rises from her seat and says, “You have information, Narcissa. I’d like to know what you want for it.” She curls one arm around her midsection and makes a small, helpless gesture with her other hand. “I don’t believe you — even you — hate us all so much that you’re willing to let the world fall apart if you know how to stop it. That whatever petty gratification you’re getting by lording your knowledge over us is worth it.”

It’s not a matter of hate, or gratification. Narcissa doesn’t say so. “Are you sure?” she asks, echoing Granger’s earlier question. “Since I’ve woken up here, I’ve been interrogated, dosed with potions, cut off from nearly everyone, refused information, and my son’s life has been treated as capital.”

“I suppose you would have cooperated had I bowed to you and given you the run of the castle?” Granger asks, slanting Narcissa an unamused smile. 

“No.”

“That’s honest, at least,” Granger mutters. She folds her arms across her chest. “So what changed? Since you’re speaking to me now.”

“Mere repayment, as discussed,” Narcissa says. “For letting me speak with Draco, for however short a time.”

Granger pauses. “And does that mean you can be bought?”

“What might you have to offer?” Narcissa asks, feigning interest. 

“Don’t insult my intelligence. I’m not stupid enough to believe you don’t have a set price already.”

“The one thing I doubt anyone’s ever accused you of being is stupid,” Narcissa says.

“Well then, what is it?” Granger says, an edge of frustration to her voice. “People are _dying._ ”

There’s nothing Narcissa can do to stop that — not yet and perhaps not ever — so she doesn’t bother with an answer. She’s content to let Granger think she has so little regard for human life if necessary. 

“Very well.” Granger scrapes her hair back from her face, purses her lips. “Perhaps I should be asking what I might be able to bring you to make your stay more pleasant, then. Is that what you’re after?” 

“How thoughtful. Hm.” Narcissa runs her fingers along the fold of her sheet. “Some books from the library might be appreciated?”

“The— What books do you want to look at?” She hesitates at Narcissa’s pointed silence, then says, “I would bring as many as you need, of course. If they could be helpful.”

“I have no doubt,” Narcissa says dryly. “And if their purpose was simply to assuage my boredom?” She nods to the short stack of books on the table by her bed, counting on the fact that Granger won’t look at the titles too closely. “I must be on my third read of the books Madam Pomfrey keeps for the students.”

Granger stares at her for several seconds, frowning deeply. But her voice is level when she says, “Make a list of what you’d like to read and give it to the elves stationed at your door. I do hope you’re a swift reader, though.”

“Yes? And why is that?”

“Because I’m speaking to Harry again in ten days,” she says flatly. “If your mental stimulation hasn’t jarred anything loose by that point, I doubt I’ll be able to find any more justification to allow you sanctuary within Hogwarts. Our resources are stretched thin enough as it is; I’d rather not waste them on someone I can’t trust if I don’t have to.” 

“Why, Ms Granger.” Narcissa gives her a slow smile. “Are you saying you would cast me out with the Inferi if I can’t think of a way to help?”

Granger studies her, serious and searching. Her return smile is chilly. “In a heartbeat,” she says. She lets the silence fester between them, her gaze fixed on Narcissa’s face. Then, with a breath, she says, “If you’ll excuse me, I have other duties I need to attend to. Feel free to contact me when you have any thoughts you'd like to share.”

Narcissa masks her surprise with a small nod. She’d rather thought their conversation had only just begun. “Of course.”

Granger nods as well — suspicious, formal — and leaves as quietly as she came, with a slip out of Narcissa’s door followed by a momentary pause, ostensibly to ask the elves stationed outside to bring her the list of Narcissa’s requested reading material. Her tone is gentle, utterly respectful, and Narcissa sits back to consider it until she hears Granger’s footsteps fade from the outer chamber of the Healing wing before leaning over to retrieve the copy of _Pureblood’s Bond_ that Rose acquired for her. Yet she finds herself staring sightlessly at the words for several minutes as she works out the implications of Granger’s abrupt departure. 

There exists a delicate equilibrium in any successful negotiation. Offering too much or settling for too little can upset that balance, but not nearly as much as letting your opponent leave before you’re ready for them to — and particularly not before you’ve revealed the gauntlet swinging above their head. 

Narcissa had hoped to draw things out until Draco had arrived at Hogwarts, to maintain an element of surprise; there are a variety of ways she would be able to protect him in person beyond the single failsafe she’s managed to set in place. Failsafes are never infallible, after all, as Narcissa herself has been so recently and intimately reminded. Even if hers is rather good and would likely incentivise Granger as nothing else might. 

But it seems waiting won't be an option much longer. Narcissa resents the flash of uncertainty she feels over that realisation.

She dislikes them, uncertainties. Still, she allows herself to briefly savour a tiny rush of satisfaction as she turns to pull a quill from the drawer beside her bed, along with two sheets of parchment. Because she _can_ be certain of one thing, established once already to Granger's detriment, which Granger fortunately continues to overlook: 

To an elf’s magic, an order will always usurp a request.

* * *

He and Harry are luckier than Draco expects: The storm doesn’t break over them until late in the day. They eat lunch without stopping and pass three small communes on their way, skipping every break they usually take except when they need to void their bladders, exchanging few words between them. Harry seems unable or unwilling to talk, which suits Draco perfectly under the circumstances, because what can he say? _I’m sorry about your ex-fiance’s likely brutal death_ is no better than _It hurts, to lose someone I can’t stop loving though I know I should, someone the entire world hates so justly._ Draco nurtures the ache alone instead, and when they’re finally besieged by stinging buckets of rain, he directs his face up to the sky and doesn’t complain, walking farther in one day than they have in the last two combined. Both the hard push and the weather have a lulling effect on the tumult of his emotions, and though he’s soaked through by the time Harry indicates they can stop for the night, Draco can't bring himself to regret either.

Walking as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Harry leads them to a dodgy set of trees that might shield them from sight, but won’t do much to protect them from the blustering winds and mercilessly pelting downpour. In the mud and without much cover, their set-up takes them well into the twilight hour or perhaps beyond — it’s hard to tell when, precisely, the sun sets. Once they’re done, they crawl inside with sighs of relief and, in silent accord, strip down to their pants. Soul-weary and shivering, Draco sits unmoving as Harry casts drying charms over them, and huddles close under the blanket Harry spreads over their shoulders. They share a tin of barely-warmed soup and finish off a package of biscuits together. 

“How was Granger getting the magic?” Draco asks when they're done, fighting back a yawn. He doesn’t want to think about his father anymore, doesn’t want to think about anything. He watches the gleam of light from their lamp flicker over the muscles of Harry’s bare back instead, as Harry casts one circumspect charm after another on their sopping clothes to draw moisture from them, a bit at a time. Draco rejects the urge to bring up his mother again, or what she could possibly be doing at Hogwarts, or what Granger might possibly want her for; it's a useless cause.

Harry grunts, his wand swishing the water out of the break in the zippered entrance. “The elves.”

“But that would mean—” Draco stops, waking up a little to consider. Harry glances at him and hesitates, then lowers his wand and sits on his feet patiently. Slowly, Draco says, “If elf magic doesn’t draw Inferi, then it’s presumably unaffected by the— the drain,” he fumbles, finding no better way to describe it, “in the atmosphere. If they’re able to fight— That is, in the Battle ten years ago, they—”

“I don’t think so,” Harry says, the unreadable expression he’s worn all day shifting. He tilts his head. “I mean, yeah, they fought — but physically. And it’s possible their magic is only working under the wards. Or lending _to_ the wards. If they could kill the Inferi, it would be done by now. Hermione would have thought of that.”

Frankly, until Draco’s little exchange with her today, he’d never thought she might be so unconscionable as to send a being like an elf into battle for her, without protection. But what did he know. “Fine, but that doesn’t mean they can’t do other things.”

“Like what?”

“What elves _do,_ ,” Draco says, enthusiasm for the idea growing. “They’re the only beings that can Apparate within the borders of Hogwarts’ grounds; perhaps they can Apparate the children to safer shores. Or deliver messages, or Summon useful help. Any number of things.”

“Or keep three hundred students and dozens of assorted others fed and in a safe place,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “Apparating within the wards of Hogwarts is one thing, Apparating people out of them is another. Believe me.”

Annoyed, Draco glares at him for being right. “It would break them.”

“Yeah. It’s not such a problem for house-elves, but living at the castle complicates things,” Harry says. He resumes leaching their clothing of water and shrugs. “It wasn’t a bad thought, though.”

“Well, what about the elves not at Hogwarts?” Draco asks determinedly. There has to be a way for them to capitalise on elf magic. “There are dozens of families in Britain who still have them, and numerous others on the Continent, I’m sure. If we were able to locate an elf here, it may be able to get us as far as Hogsmeade.”

“Malfoy.” Potter stops again and looks at him directly, mouth pressing into a tight line. “How do you propose we find them? Drop the net of a Summoning spell over France? Send a request for help that reaches London? The ones who weren’t killed in the siege are probably without a tether now, their families dead or changed. Elves are…” He grimaces, then bluntly says, “They’re useless when they’re grieving for the family they worked for. Their magic is too unfocussed, even damaging, flaring everywhere when they try the simplest of spells. It takes them a year or more to come to terms with the loss; it’s even worse than when they’re given clothes.”

Draco frowns, digesting that. He’s seen elves presented with clothing more often than he cares to remember, and it’s never a pretty event. But still— “How do you know what they’re like when their families die?”

“Kreacher told me.” 

“And what about Kreacher?” 

Harry lets out a tightly-controlled breath. His hair is starting to curl as it dries, his glasses still speckled with water. “What about him?”

“You should be able to call him, no matter where you are!” Draco grabs his arm, demanding his attention. Harry’s bicep flexes in his grip, his mouth, if possible, going even more immobile, and Draco says, “He’s your elf; you can call him here, he could—”

“No, he’s not.” Harry jostles off his touch, antagonised. “He’s— not my elf right now.”

“Right now?” Perplexed, Draco lets his hand fall away. “Potter, an elf’s loyalties don’t just transfer; Kreacher is _tied_ to you. Try calling him, I'd wager that even with the magic dampening effect, he'll hear—”

“No, he won't. Leave it alone.”

“Have you even tried?” Draco shakes his head in disbelief. “I'd do it in a heartbeat if I had an elf, I don't see what the issue is!”

“I gave him an order, okay?” Harry growls. “I gave him an order! He sensed I was in danger on a job several years ago and nearly got caught by curse fire when he Apparated to the middle of a wand fight. He’s not mine when I’m on duty, or when I’m on holiday, _unless explicitly asked beforehand_. He’s not _allowed_ to follow me, and I gave him specific duties for when I’m gone to keep him safe. I fucked up, all right? He’s not even allowed to respond to me until I'm back in Britain. I _tried_ calling for him when it first happened, and I’ve tried a hundred times since, but— I never thought I’d need—” He swallows, looking vaguely hunted and a little sick, his cheeks burning a dull red. 

Draco blows out a breath, more rattled than he should be by Harry’s impotent rage. By the events of the day. He lifts a hand to Harry’s face, forces him ‘round so their eyes will meet. _You’re not responsible for knowing everything,_ he wants to say, _any more than you are for saving everyone._

Harry’s narrowed gaze searches his before slipping down to pause on Draco’s mouth for a fraction of a beat. Then he closes his eyes, his jaw knotting under Draco’s fingertips. He pulls away and curses softly. Looks to their clothes. “I don’t think I can dry them fully tonight without expending too much magic. If the storm keeps up, I’ll try to find something, find a way to cover you.”

“That’ll be fine.” Draco stares at him, a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He shoots Harry a smile to hide his confusion. “You do seem to have a convenient talent for… covering me.” 

“Listen, Malfoy...” Harry doesn’t look at him as he trails off, and it hits Draco with the force of a hexed Bludger. Why he’s calling him Malfoy again, what he’s trying to find the words to say. 

“We’re not—” Forcing his panic down, Draco attempts to look at the situation objectively, and can’t. But he takes a breath and pushes forward. “Are we?”

“It’s just. It’s time for— all that to stop. It’s got to end." Harry gusts out a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. “We’ve been wasting too much time, and we have to— to focus for now. Right?” Tightly, he adds, “You couldn't have expected it to go on forever, once you were… better.”

What the fuck.

Too many responses roll through Draco: how unfair that is, what a lie. What a weak little shit Harry can be for someone with such a golden reputation. The temptation to return to form is almost overwhelming. But he finds himself suddenly tired, unwilling to engage in the sort of battle they once might have indulged in, if Harry still thought him worthy of one.

“No,” he says. “Honestly, I never expected it to happen at all.”

Harry hikes up his good shoulder defensively. Draco observes him with the disconcerting realisation that nothing less than the end of days would have brought them to each other’s bed. He probably should have known as soon as Harry finished speaking to Granger that it would precipitate a change between them, but finding out his mother was alive, the confirmation that his father wasn’t… His instincts have been off. Evidently more than he realised. 

Distasteful as it is, Harry’s rejection strikes him with similar depth as the news of his father’s death — both predictable outcomes, if he’d allowed himself to really think on them — and yet, somehow, leaves him feeling more unbalanced. 

_Because he’s not like me_ , Pansy murmurs gently. _He surprised you with something you never had reason to expect, and now you want to keep him. Don’t you._

Draco flinches. Swallows. It’s true.

Perhaps not so predictable, then.

"I mean." Harry stares down at their clothes. Gulps. As though it takes a monumental effort, he says. "It was useful to me, too. But. It's just..." 

He shakes his head, and Draco exhales a sustained breath. The whole day has been rather less forgiving than either of them could have anticipated. But the morning might change things, might make Harry look at things in a new light. Whatever the case, a longer discussion now won’t help matters. 

“We should go to sleep, then,” Draco says. “How far did we walk today? Twenty kilometres?”

“Closer to thirty.” Harry looks unsure. Even guilty, a tic to the hard line of his jaw. “D— Malfoy...”

“Hold on.” Draco folds his jacket into quarters, the drier inside of it facing out, then situates Harry’s jacket similarly. He lowers himself down with a small hiss of discomfort, the muscles in his thighs burning, and lifts the blanket. “Excuse me if I drop off while you’re talking. Go ahead.”

After a moment, Harry removes his glasses and slips under the blanket too, the outside of his arm brushing Draco’s chest. He chews on his lower lip. “What did your mother say?” he asks, a repeat from his question that morning. But this time his voice is soft and Draco can’t think of a reason not to be honest. 

“That my father is dead, and I’m in danger,” he says. “That I should beware of you, though that part was less explicit.”

It seems to startle Harry; he whips his head sideways to study him. “Why?”

“I don’t know, but I’m assuming it has to do with Granger holding her hostage.” Draco snorts. “Not a thing that breeds trust, that.”

The tent shudders at a blast of wind, and Draco hears the faintest howl in the distance over the sound of the rain — like a werewolf baying at the moon. It’s almost surely the weather, but a tremble slips down his spine, regardless. 

Harry inches closer on his back, arm shifting above Draco’s head. “Come on,” he says gruffly, clearly reticent. 

He means, _Like we have before._ He means, _To share heat,_ and _It’ll be more comfortable._ A deeply petty part of Draco resents his hesitation and wants to refuse, but logic reminds him that Harry’s yet to let him down. Not in any real way. Shivering, Draco fits himself just enough against Harry’s side, their legs tangling with a familiarity born of necessity. Harry’s arm comes down to lightly circle Draco’s shoulders, the tension leaking from his body in increments.

“What did Granger say?” Draco asks, pulling back slightly to look at him when his shivers have abated. Harry’s forehead is creased; it reshapes the bolt of his scar. 

“Are you going to… beware of me, now?” Harry asks, instead of answering. “Because if I tell you to do something, I need to know—”

Draco arches an eyebrow, too dulled to even feel insulted. He supposes he’s in some form of retroactive shock. “I love my mother. I'd take apart anyone who hurt her. But I make my own decisions. I rather thought you’d learned that much about me by now. At least that.” Warming quickly, drowsy, he gestures back-and forth between them. “This would be a stupid position to put myself in if I felt I needed to watch you, no matter how cold I was. We can talk about the rest tomorrow.”

“Yes. I guess— Yeah. Okay.” Harry reaches down and turns off the lamp. He’s silent for so long, Draco wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But then — in a whisper, like he’s violating some rule — he says, “When you told me about your father, earlier. I was… unkind.”

Draco weighs that before giving a small, relieved nod against Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your people, too.” He hears a soft gulp, and automatically tightens his arm around Harry’s midriff. “I’m sorry about— her.”

Harry’s chest heaves, once, then goes still. After a moment, it returns to the rise-and-fall of normal breathing patterns. In a small, stifled voice that sounds a little mystified, Harry says, “I was talking about her only last night.”

Draco says nothing; there _is_ nothing to say. There are other ways to alleviate the pain — he’s half-hard and senses that Harry is too, a conditioned response to their activities over the last week — but neither of them move to seek closer contact than their loose embrace. Draco closes his eyes.

When he opens them, it’s still raining, but a bleary light seeps in through their tent. He rubs the gritty blur from his eyes and looks up. Harry's gaze is on him, eyes dark and full of questions. Draco waits, heart kicking hard. He feels balanced on the edge of some unknown precipice. But after several seconds, Harry only expels a trembling breath, then sits up and moves away.

They get ready for the day in silence, not touching.


	10. Hebrews 8:13

_The ballroom is pristine, white-and-grey marbled floors gleaming in the fractalled light cascading from the crystalled chandelier. Draco spins her out with a grin when she throws her head back and laughs, her formal pink skirts swirling about her. He tosses her light grip to his opposite hand and reels her back in, raising an eyebrow. Pansy muffles her laughter, but the bridge of her upturned nose stays crinkled and her eyes are sparkling._

_“Quiet now,” he warns against her ear, “or your mother might decide I’m an unsuitable companion after all.”_

_“I’d worry about your own parents, if I were you,” Pansy says. She flips her hair, defiant in both gesture and style. She’s wearing it loose these days, a swath of glossy raven silk over her creamy shoulders to attract the eye. She tucks herself a little closer to him, raising her own eyebrow at Draco’s indrawn breath. “Besides, we’re nearly twenty-four. I think we're finally old enough to live our own lives. ...Don’t you?”_

_Her mouth is red from kissing, her cheeks flushed, her ankles tossed over his shoulders as he fucks her, a different sort of rhythm required. She’s as silky inside as she is everywhere else and **Merlin** , she feels so bloody fantastic, Draco wonders why they’ve never done this before. Her dark, fronded eyelashes part to reveal eyes just a shade too green. “Aren’t you going to?”_

_“I want you to come first,” Draco murmurs breathlessly. He tries to slow the piston of his hips, but she’s delectably soft and wet and tight around him, and he doubts his own control._

_Pansy knots a hand in his hair, pulls him down for a hard kiss. She’s always boasted about being a brilliant fuck and Draco can only curse himself for waiting so long to find out how true that is. He comes inside her, groaning faintly against her mouth._

_An ashtray rests, conjured, on the soft curve of her belly. Draco normally doesn’t indulge — he dislikes what it does to his lungs on a run — but sometimes a cigarette is just the thing. Pansy flicks her ashes, then absently passes over the cigarette as if she knows that he can’t take his eyes from its bright orange cherry._

_“Thanks, I’m dying for one,” he says with a small, repressed cough as he inhales. The rush of nicotine makes him dizzy._

_“I’m already dead, you know.”_

_Draco pauses to take another drag. The cigarette trembles between his fingers. “I know. I’m the one who killed you.”_

_She makes a disapproving sound. “Stop pretending you’re the one to blame and give credit where it’s due. Let’s look a little closer, shall we, at who made you do it?”_

_“I guess even death doesn’t cure rampant narcissism,” Draco says, greedily committing her face to memory when she laughs._

_“No, it doesn’t,” she says, then pauses. “I did come, though. Regardless.”_

_“Ah, yes, let’s discuss the really important topics.” His throat burns, closing too tight for anything else._

_Pansy rolls to her side. Her hair is rumpled now but the the flush of sex is fading on her perfect skin. She smiles wistfully. “I always did with you. Always will, even now. Especially now. But you know that too, don’t you?”_

_“Yes,” Draco thinks. “I know, darling.” Somehow she hears him just as he, in turn, has heard her — though her mouth, still fixed in that dreamy, melancholy smile, hasn't moved in the last few moments. Draco tears his gaze away._

_Pansy hums, an agreement set to the tune of a melody Draco remembers lulling him to sleep as a child. She plucks the cigarette from his fingers and brings it up to her lips. Wisps of smoke rise from the slender red grimace stretched across her throat as she inhales, and she gazes at him for a beat. Then, seriously: “It’s important that you do, Draco, because—”_

*

Draco rouses with a start, fumbling for the lamp resting above his head. He switches it on, panting hot, shaky breaths that cloud and dissolve in the frigid air as he tries to figure out how long he’s been asleep. The damned inexhaustible rain is coming down in sheets again, last night’s reprieve apparently over. Bad weather, combined with the thicket of trees where they’ve set up, rewires something in his brain that makes it difficult to process the passage of time, and it still looks dark outside, though he supposes it’s entirely possible that sunrise has already come and gone. But he doesn’t think so, not with Harry lying next to him, unmoving.

He stares at the top of the tent and scowls as he considers. There’s been something of a tonal shift to his nightmares lately, more memory than accusation. Softer, too, and quieter; almost comforting. He’s gone over them ad nauseum, but can’t think of a reason for the change. Can’t think of any reason why else his mind is caught on her reassurances — on her remarkable, hidden tenderness and on the sense of connection they’d always shared — rather than the gruesome reality of her death. Can’t figure out why they nevertheless feel like nightmares upon waking. They just… do.

Sighing, Draco switches the lamp back off with the vain hope he’ll be able to find sleep once more; his exhaustion has started to impact his and Harry’s progress, slowing them down even as Harry pushes them farther each day. Draco’s not even sure Harry’s noticed his lack of energy; if he has, he’s refrained from commenting on it in any fashion other than making sure Draco’s getting enough to eat. He suspects it makes it easier for Harry to relegate him to the category of mere chattel. A rather twisted way of looking at things, in Draco’s opinion, considering the position he was born to keep and the fact that Harry’s nothing more a filthy halfblood who—

It’s a nasty, spider’s nest of a thought, the kind too easy to get trapped in and full of the anger Draco’s been resolutely ignoring for days. Yet, startled and sick as he feels to have had it, he finds he wants to expand on it in detail now, wants to tally up each one of Harry’s slights against him back through year one, and back before they ever even met. With a shiver, Draco forces himself to scrutinise not the thought itself but the inclination, a lurking malevolence webbing all around him; he’s all-too-aware of his genetic disposition towards that type of madness, but this is foreign, outside. _Other._

Draco’s heart stutters, his chest heaving. He quietly gasps out “ _Potter,_ ” and, as he feels Harry come immediately awake beside him, tries to give out a warning, only to find that he’s too terrified to speak.

“Shh,” Harry whispers against his temple, even as he brings up a hand to cover Draco’s mouth and rolls to rest over Draco’s chest. Disoriented, Draco’s mind catches on the significance of that, when they’ve barely touched in days. But Harry’s weight atop him settles his nerves and acts as an anchor, allowing him to push back the rising tide of panic threatening to suck him under. Draco relaxes, organises his thoughts, and moves his head in a small, precise nod. He feels Harry return it and then, slowly, Harry removes his hand and tilts his ear to Draco’s mouth.

“They’re coming,” Draco breathes. Harry nods again, lifts his head. They look at each other for a long beat and then Harry’s shadowed gaze snaps to the side, his body tensing. Draco listens, and can’t hear anything but the storm. 

At length, Harry moves off him by increments, gaze still riveted on Draco’s tent siding. Draco drags in another deep breath, cold air washing over him in the absence of Harry’s heat. Not looking at him, Harry holds one finger up to his mouth, then points to their bags, the pile of their damp clothing, to himself and Draco in turn. Heart galloping at hectic speeds, Draco retrieves Harry’s clothes and passes them over, and they rapidly start dressing. He’s tying the laces of his boots when the swamp of sensation returns, heavier than before; he looks up and grabs Harry by the arm. 

Harry hesitates in the act of sliding on his jacket, glancing at him with a furrowed brow. He reaches for his wand, strapped to his thigh, but stops when Draco points outside. 

“ _Close?_ ” Harry mouths, leaning in. 

Draco pushes off the encroaching nausea and concentrates on the Dark magic tangling around his senses. A sour, rotten taste fills his mouth, makes him gag. He nods.

“ _Apparate?_ ” Harry gestures with his thumb in the direction of the zippered tent flap. “ _Or run?_ ”

Leaving it up to Draco to decide. He glares at Harry, then detaches himself to run through a swift analysis of each option in his mind. Draco can’t get a sense of how many Inferi there are, but the cold slither of fear is holding steady though dawn, such as it is, can’t be too long coming; if there are only a few and they run, Harry could likely execute them with ease. But even if there are dozens outside, Apparition carries with it a risk of both injury and attracting attention, and he and Harry likely wouldn’t be able to get very far anyway,

“ _Run,_ ” Draco mouths, meeting his eyes.

Harry gives him a hard, searching look. He opens his mouth, brow knitting, but the moment is lost when he quickly shakes his head and returns to task. He buckles their packs securely and puts one over his shoulders. Draco puts on the other, strangely bereft. They’ll have to abandon the tent; as protection from the touch of Inferi go, it’s pathetic, but it’s been the only one they’ve had. Neither will they be able to take the blanket and lamp — still unpacked, they’re not worth the risk it’ll take to Shrink and tuck them away — and the thought of leaving their few, spare comforts behind is harder than it should be.

Crouched much like a sprinter at the start of a race, Harry hesitates, index finger and thumb pinching the zipper tab. He shifts his weight to his back foot, twists his head to give Draco another searching look, and with his free hand, crooks a finger. Draco edges closer, puts his ear to Harry’s mouth.

“Northwest,” Harry whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear. The contrast of warmth against the icy dread working its way through Draco’s chest makes him tremble. Harry presses his mouth even tighter, his words dropping to barely a breath. “Run northwest along the road, and don’t stop running.” He waits for Draco to nod. “If we get separated, stop outside the next town on our route. If I’m not there by sunset, assume I’m gone—” Draco jerks back, but Harry catches his hand uncompromisingly and pulls him close again, “—and call Hermione at the designated time. One of the phones is in your bag, and some of the beads too. Now get out your wand.”

Harry squeezes his hand before releasing it, as stunning a disparity as the heat of his mouth which hasn't been so close since the rains began. Then, following his own advice, Harry pulls the machete from his scabbard and arches an eyebrow. Draco blows out a breath and pulls the scimitar from his own — not a wand anymore, though he’s grateful Harry had the presence of mind to call it that. It’s light, the hilt not only comfortable in his grip, but… pleased. Like a Crup waiting for approval from its master. Draco subdues his magic; he nods at the question on Harry’s face. Harry yanks the zipper down, and bolts.

Draco waits a beat, then scrambles after him. It seems to take only seconds before the bluster of wind knocks their tree cover aside to reveal thunderclouds weakly backlit by dawn. The rain soaks him down to the skin as he crashes through the underbrush, pulse kicking in his throat. He can make out the shapes of tree trunks, can vaguely hear Harry ahead of him, but in all other ways he feels lost, the early morning hours and unforgiving storm locking him in a menacing fog — which grows, second by second, as the putrid magics animating the Inferi close thick around him. Outside the tent, Draco can sense them more clearly, somehow knows there are a half-dozen of them, and that they’re stronger than the ones he and Harry have encountered since Paris. He feels the precise moment their lagging brain functions narrow in on the racket he and Harry are making, the precise moment they spot him. Their hunger sinks into Draco like a blade severing his spine; he stumbles, trips, falling to his hands and knees.

They’re getting nearer, their heightened predatory senses guiding them where their eyes can’t. Their need to consume saturates him and, horrified, he can’t bring himself to move for the sudden certainty that as soon as he stands, he’ll join the ranks of the undead. Knowing Harry’s too far away to hear him, Draco whispers his name anyway, paralysed. 

And then, inexplicably, a rush of warmth envelops him. A glow. It tremors through Draco’s chest in fits and starts, abrasive but soothing. Familiar. Draco grasps a handful of the wet, half-rotted leaves covering the ground and shakes the drip of water from his eyelashes, looking up as it grows to see Harry’s outlined silhouette in a purposeful, breakneck run towards him. The heat grows and spreads inside Draco and, appalled, Draco realises it’s Harry’s magic — that he’s reached for it on instinct or, with no prior training and in an environment that leaches magic from the air itself, Harry has forced his own resources through to him. 

“Keep down!” Harry shouts, and swings himself around to block an Inferi from where Draco is huddled, barely able to breathe for fear of making himself a distraction. Draco hears the muffled thud of Harry’s machete separating body from limb, and then Harry’s hands are on him, hauling him up, pushing him onwards. “Go, _go!_ ”

Fortified, Draco goes. The overwhelming stench of the Inferi fades to background static in Draco’s head and he finds that Harry’s magic narrows the wild field of his vision, too. Without trying, he’s suddenly able to disregard every distraction that lends towards hysteria: each sharp prick of rain, the dim of the trees. Even the fact that they’re being hunted seems like merely another situational variable to be acknowledged and then compartmentalised, useful only to the degree that he can predict all of the new potential hazards attached. He can feel the throb of Harry’s heartbeat keeping time with his own as they run, can sense Harry a few paces behind him. 

His vision blurs, then clears as he breaks from a snarled thicket of overgrown hedges at the tree line, and Draco follows his feet north. The jostling weight of his pack slows him down but the bunch and release of his muscles verges on euphoric, he knows it so well, and the uneven terrain is as easy to negotiate as the stitch burning in his side, once he lets his body take over. The motorway they never stray too far from looms ahead in the waning darkness, promising a steadier path and a clearer territory on which to defend themselves if caught; leaning into the ache of his own propulsion, Draco pushes himself and hits the wet, hard-paved road so smoothly he doesn’t even need to correct his stride. He gusts out the last bit of residual darkness from his lungs and faintly hears a sharp, distinctive _crack_ , then another, and that’s when he realises: the synced rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat is gone. 

Draco pulls to a hard stop and turns. He’s no longer being pursued, but neither is Harry anywhere in sight. He can’t make out much of anything beyond Harry’s absence — not the shape of Harry’s body lying helpless in the middle of the road or in the field he’s just run through, no corpse with Harry’s face following him. Draco’s rushing blood feels like poison spiking through his veins, his own, lonely pulse the worst sort of duplicity.

Harry didn’t get out.

_If we get separated..._

“Bastard,” Draco breathes, mind stuttering to a grating halt. Frozen with indecision, he looks to his transfigured wand, gleaming wet and sharp under the lash of rain, then scans the storm-tossed cluster of trees. He’s a talented duellist when he can use magic, but hasn’t had any real hand-to-hand combat training, and the only physical fracas he’s been party to in the last ten years consisted mainly of running, the night the world ended. He doesn’t even know if he could bring himself to even brandish the weapon his wand has become. Not again. 

Harry told Draco where to go. He said to run, and to not stop running.

He said, _Assume I’m gone_...

Jerking his pack from his shoulders, Draco leaves it on the road and runs for the trees.

* * *

Bleeding and defenceless, Harry scrabbles backwards in a crab-walk until his shoulders smack into a wet tree trunk. It jars the Splinched muscle near his hip and he bites down on a groan as he levers himself to his feet, trying to stay quiet. If he’s tallied right, there are only two left, and he’s hurt them enough to slow them down — one of them missing an arm and a leg, the other gouged in the eyes. The real problem is that with his glasses knocked off, he’s working blind too, and he can’t make out whether the blurred whip of shadows he sees are trees or Inferi, nor even exactly how far from him they are.

It's the loss of his machete that's the worst part, though. He's fought blind before, has conditioned his reflexes over the years enough that he can usually let them take over and still be reasonably confident he'll come out on top. But without eyes or a weapon, and injured besides, he feels more vulnerable than he has since the last time a forest wanted to claim him. 

The hulking shadow in his line of vision moves, pauses. Moves again. Slow and hypnotic, like a cobra might, scenting the air for its prey — a marked difference from the confused rage of the storm. Harry can’t tell which one it is, blind or maimed, but it won’t take long before he’s found; his magic is still boiling under his skin, a bleak, futile clawing for new release. He slips his wand from his holster on the chance he’ll have the opportunity to use it, unlikely as it may be. He doesn't exactly regret writing a target on his back by pulling his magic back into himself, but neither can he resign himself to the idea of his own death. Particularly given that, lacking a weapon to speed things up, it’s looking to be an unforgiving one.

The Inferi lumbers towards him, and Harry holds his breath. He presses his back to the tree as its features begin to sharpen: It’s the one with no eyes. Her decomposing arms are outstretched, her bony fingers pulled into clawed points. Her balance is off, and the drag of her footsteps lists her sideways, robbing her of their usual speed, but Harry doesn’t doubt she’ll be on him within seconds if he alerts her to his position by moving or trying to run too soon. 

Yet, when she's near enough to Harry that he could take a single step forward and grab her hand, she suddenly flinches and swivels, her body seizing up. She exhales a rabid, ravenous shriek crashes away from him as the other Inferi makes its position known by struggling onto one leg, falling, and righting itself again. Harry processes it all in the span of a second and searches for Draco, whose bright hair becomes obvious in the gloom once he knows to look for it. 

Squinting, Harry follows flashes of silvery-white and sees Draco dart behind a tree, then another, weaving in between obstacles, the blind Inferi hunting him down. Harry opens his mouth as Draco passes him on one side, but Draco cuts him off with a yell: “ _Potter—!_ ”

 _Catch!_ he doesn’t get out, but Harry snatches the metallic shimmer from the air anyway, the heavy hilt of Draco’s weapon firm in his grip. He sets his stance as Draco streaks through a series of trees and then straight at him, a darker figure gaining momentum at his back. Harry lifts the scimitar, adjusting to its heft in the few seconds they have left, and then Draco drops, sliding on his knees in the muck, and Harry swings, cutting the air to a whistle with the force he puts into it, and severs the Inferi’s head from her spine. 

Panting, Harry doesn’t spare a glance at Draco before making his way over to the Inferi still trying to hop over to them. He dispatches it, stabbing its headless cadaver for good measure because he’s so furious and, leaving Draco’s scimitar buried in its chest, stalks back to where Draco, awkwardly half-splayed and covered in mud and rotting leaves, is tiredly getting up. Harry grips Draco’s arm and jerks him to his feet. 

“What the _fuck!_ ” he hisses, shaking him. “I ordered you to run!”

The punch glances off Harry’s chin, but Draco puts enough weight behind it to snap Harry’s head to the side. Blasted through with relief, and rage, and a fear that goes so deep his bones hurt from it, Harry ducks Draco’s second swing and clamps his hands around Draco’s wrists. He drives Draco back against the same tree where Harry’d been caught only moments ago, and pins him in place as Draco thrashes.

“ _Fuck_ your orders,” Draco says, trying to buck him off. Harry applies more pressure with his body and Draco growls, low and warningly, but finally stills. 

“You agreed to follow them,” Harry says through clenched teeth. “You—”

“I never agreed to let you martyr yourself to protect me,” Draco says with a breathless, sneering laugh. "Noble Harry Potter. That's how you decide to do it?" He bucks again and Harry grunts, tightening his fingers around his wrists. Draco slumps against the tree once more, an irascible glint in his eyes; through his glove, Harry can feel the wild flutter of Draco’s pulse. His chest is heaving under Harry’s, and as they stare at one another, Draco narrows his eyes into slits. 

“Careful, Potter,” he murmurs, nudging his hips forward. “If you fuck me now, you’ll have a much harder time convincing yourself later that you’ve done it for my benefit.”

A small, astonished sound rips from Harry’s throat and the glare falls away from Draco’s face; for a moment, he looks as shocked as Harry feels over the accusation. But Draco regroups faster, fitting his cold mask back into place when Harry helplessly glances down at his mouth. Harry flings himself away, cock hard and throbbing like a toothache.

They haven’t talked about it since they stopped. Haven’t talked about much else either, the easy camaraderie they shared gone as though it never existed, the new silences between them punctuated as corporal punishment. That should make things easier, Harry knows, but it doesn’t. Distancing himself from his own wants, after a lifetime of doing it, is way more difficult than it should be now. 

Maybe talking would clear the air. But so many confidences have already passed between them, Harry doesn't know if it's possible to limit his truths anymore. Not when his confessions lurk, sweet and tempting, in the back of his throat every night — about all of the things he's not sure he has a right to feel. 

“I couldn’t even use my— I had to throw a _rock_ at her,” Draco mutters, moving on before Harry can decide. He pushes upright and breaks their gaze. “Sacrificing yourself is my death sentence, as you’ve pointed out more than once. Besides, what would Granger and Weasley think? Think they’d let me live if I _did_ manage to make it to Hogwarts without you?”

Harry starts, exhales. Inevitable as it was that Draco — too smart not to ask himself the right questions, based on context clues — would figure out what Hermione really said, Harry had still held out the hope he wouldn’t be quite so accurate. He doesn’t suppose he’ll get any credit for not obeying her instructions to the letter, though. 

“I’m not— I wouldn’t—” Harry swallows, reaching for an honest answer that doesn’t give too much of himself away. “I’d do anything for them; they’ve earned my trust,” he says, and has to brace himself against the bitter grimace that pulls at Draco’s mouth. “But I wouldn’t let you die to save myself. I said I'd defend you, and I will.”

“How touching,” is all Draco says, looking down at his hand and flexing it with exaggerated care. “And yet your service to me ends the moment you die on my behalf. It's quite a pity, or—” His pause has a startled air about it, the spread of his fingers collapsing, the drop of his arm to his side. His gaze grows distant.

“Or what?”

“I—” Draco shakes his head, then huffs out a sardonic laugh. “I think I broke my hand on your bloody chin.”

_I had to throw a rock at her._

Harry’s stomach twists. Absurdly, he finds himself remembering the argument he and Ron had with Hermione, in their first year of Auror training, when they scoffed over one of the rules in the handbook: _It’s common-sense preparation!_ she’d said hotly. _Like putting on your own oxygen mask before putting on your child’s. You tend to your own injuries first, because you'll not exactly be able to save each other if you’re bleeding out, will you!_

Draco is... right. It’s not enough for Harry to make sure he’s fed up and fit enough to run, not enough to throw his body in the way of any danger. Dying in this environment _will_ be Draco’s death sentence. In one way or another.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reclaims the space between them. Draco flinches but allows it, and Harry rings his fingers lightly back around Draco’s wrist. Turns Draco’s hand palm-up.

“A rock was a good idea. Better to keep a distance if you can.” He folds Draco's fingers closed. Adjusts the placement of Draco’s thumb so it rests over his index and middle fingers. “It’s not broken, but it could have been if you’d caught me any harder,” he says softly. “Keep your thumb on the outside.”

Draco tightens his fist experimentally — correctly. “I see,” he says, though, judging by the wary glance he throws Harry, he clearly doesn’t. "Next time I hit you, I'll be sure to remember your advice," he adds, then blinks and glances around them, seeming to remember where they are. He eyes Harry, gaze catching on Harry’s midsection. “You’re bleeding.”

The pain Harry designated as low-priority during the fight spikes at the verbal reminder and, with it, the rest of his discomfort, as his adrenaline starts to crash. He clasps a hand to his side, staunching the sluggish flow of blood. The storm has eased off, the rain nothing more than irritating drips from the water-logged trees, but it’s still cold and they’re both drenched and filthy. Colour high in his cheeks and covered with mud, Draco looks like he’s just won a game of Quidditch; Harry thinks he probably looks like a half-drowned rat. 

“Had to Apparate a couple of times,” he says. He limps towards the tent. 

Behind him, Draco says, “Shouldn’t we—?”

“Later,” Harry says with a grunt. “Find my glasses. They’re somewhere—” he gestures in what’s probably the right direction, though it doesn't sit well, letting Draco too far out of reach “—by that short one wearing an ugly orange dressing robe. And grab my machete; the blade got stuck in his spine.”

Thankfully, Draco doesn’t protest. They both work with haste, keenly aware that the magic still burning in the atmosphere might draw more Inferi, and in almost no time, Harry’s glasses and machete are restored to him, their campsite is broken down — their tent slightly crushed but otherwise no worse for wear — and they’re on the road. Draco, insistent on carrying Harry’s pack, retrieves his own from a puddle when they come to it; he shakes the water from it with a look of supreme exasperation, and slings it over his free shoulder. 

“How bad?” he asks after a few minutes.

“I’m fine.”

“Potter.”

Harry frowns, keeping his sore hand tight to his aching side. “Not good, but I’ve—” he breathes through another wave of pain “—had worse.” Draco stops Harry’s progress with a firm hand to his arm, and Harry catches his gaze. “Really,” he says, nodding steadily. “Right now we need to get somewhere less exposed.”

Draco’s frowns, but his touch drops away as they continue on, and Harry does his best not to regret its loss.

* * *

An elf delivers the summons at the end of a meeting. Hermione scans it and smiles; she dismisses the elf with a murmured thank you. She exchanges a quick look with Minerva, and pockets the note before turning back to strike through the last item on her legal pad.

“Please excuse the interruption.” She swivels her chair at the head of the table to address the three-person team in charge of cross-referencing archaic Dark Magic spells. “All right, then. I’ll have a discussion with Madam Pince,” she says, as if it’s remotely acceptable that Irma has refused them access. Technically, it’s within her purview to do so, as the caged books are only supposed to be available to members of senior staff, but Irma has grown even more territorial about the library than she was when Hermione first met her. As a student, Hermione appreciated her stern competence, but denying the Unspeakables vital resources is taking things a peg too far. “I’ll sign for them myself, if I need to. I want a narrower list of potential spells by tomorrow.” 

Sighing, Hermione looks around the committee assembled before her, composed of the Unspeakables, about a third of the staff, and the few witches and wizards from the general populace who made it to Hogwarts and who have training in particularly helpful fields. That they can claim a certain level of magical expertise doesn’t make the inevitable answer to her next question any less annoying. “Are there any other issues?”

She doesn’t hold out much hope anyone will say no; they’ve already run thirty minutes longer than they did in their meeting two days ago. And her irritation isn’t _really_ their fault, Hermione knows. It’s just the result of additional complications arising that need to be addressed, and more and more of those every day: ward cracks, students accidentally or intentionally using magic, the aging drain on the house-elves, depletions of a resource the Unspeakables declare they need. She never gets a negative reply in answer to this question.

Predictable as clockwork, there’s a bustling shift at the table, several people glancing down at their own notes, and Hermione sighs and resigns herself to a wait before she can discuss the note burning a hole in her pocket. One of the Unspeakables she thinks specialises in designing long-distance spellwork, a man of about sixty with steel grey hair, finally takes a breath and speaks up. 

“We need some fresh elves.”

Hermione pauses pointedly and has the satisfaction of seeing complexion go ruddy under his faint tan — even if he doesn’t have the decency to apologise. She directs an unpleasant smile his way. “Pardon me, I’ve not yet grown accustomed to hearing elves referred to as exchangeable produce.”

“However you choose to refer to them, the fact remains that the… volunteers we’re using, are running—” He clears his throat, takes a beat to rephrase. “Our current volunteers are drained. Unspeakable 441,” he says with a terse nod towards a quiet woman at the other end of the table, “has been tracking the flow of our magical output in preparation for the spell, and she reported to me that our wards are already beginning to shrink without new magic to lend to them.” 

“By what measurement?” Hermione asks her. 

Unspeakable 441 checks her notes. “Not much, yet. About a dozen square metres around the perimetre have been lost. But current estimations have them decreasing to within a metre of the castle after we cast the spell. Perhaps a bit more or less, depending on the timing of the spell and whether we need to use more magic for it than we’ve calculated for.” 

A metre. Fewer inches than Hugo’s height, measuring tall for his age at his last exam. Merlin.

“Is there any reason to think the wards will breach the stones?” Hermione asks. The woman tentatively shakes her head and Hermione makes a mental note to corral everyone in the castle away from its borders when the spell is ready, regardless, then turns back to the designer. “How will this ultimately affect the spell?”

“With new volunteers, it shouldn’t, but there will be no way to re-extend the wards after it’s done. We should have anticipated it," he adds, accepting culpability, which Hermione appreciates, "but the majority of us have been focused on constructing the spell complex enough to both clear a path for Potter and Malfoy in Coquelles and rebound in time for their exit in Britain. I would suggest directing — _asking_ — some younger elves in to substitute.”

“We’ve been relying on volunteers, haven’t we? I won’t order them now.”

With a bemused glance at the other Unspeakables, he says, “All of the elves have volunteered, without exception. We’ve been using older elves, because their magic continues growing as they age until it peaks, at which point—”

“Then the younger ones need to be made aware of the risks,” Hermione says sharply.

“They are aware, Headmistress,” Minerva interjects, startling her. Her expression is mild, but there’s a soft edge of rebuke to her tone as she says, “Their knowledge of their magical abilities and limits probably far exceeds ours, about our own.” Hermione flushes; they’ve discussed her tendency to treat elves like children on more than one occasion. But then Minerva sighs, and rests her elbow on the table, pressing two fingers against her temple. “However, I cannot see any harm in clearly outlining the hazards for each new elf that takes on the task.”

Not that it will stop them from volunteering, she might as well add. Each of the elves chosen from the mass wave of volunteers has seemed delighted — honoured, even — to serve.

“Yes. Yeah. We can—” It comes from a younger Unspeakable that Hermione thinks is partnered with the older fellow on spell design. Hermione wonders if he’s friends with Malfoy; he doesn’t look much older than she is. He glances at her and does a double-take, blinks a little in the face of her glare. Lowering his head once more, he finishes making a note on his parchment with a quill, then looks up at her with a cautious smile. “We’ll make sure to do that.”

Hermione sighs. “Very good. Is there anything else?”

Thankfully there isn’t, and she’s able to conclude the meeting. But as everyone scatters to their respective tasks, Neville loiters as Hermione stows away her things. 

“What is it, Nev?” she asks when she’s finished, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. 

“Sorry to keep you. Didn’t see a reason to prolong that mess,” he says, gesturing to the table, “but I wanted to ask about the greenhouses.” 

“The—? Oh.” The warding boundaries. “They’ll be inaccessible, won’t they? Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Neville’s shrug is pragmatic. “Just thinking about more important things, I wager. I’m bound to lose a few plants but if it’s okay, I can get my students to help me bring in the rest, useful things. I’d need to requisition a few rooms with the appropriate light or humidity resources, though — tower and dungeons both, I think.”

“Yes, of course. Take whatever free space we have that works,” Hermione says. She stops by the door, chewing on her lower lip for a second and glances down the corridor to make sure it’s empty, but blinks when she glances back up at Neville, overcome by the disjointed realisation that he and Ron are the same height. Taking a small step back, she pretends she doesn’t see the worried pinch between his brows. 

“What is it?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Will this ruin your new—? Um. The hybrid flowers you’ve been planning on putting into your next research paper?” 

Neville reddens a little and takes a moment to check the corridor for himself. He doesn’t talk about his private research often but when he does, he can bang on about it for hours — usually when he’s successfully moved on from a new stage of development. The last time he mentioned it, excitedly and with the added brightness of a few too many drinks, he claimed he was nearly finished, just days before the Inferi came to their doors. She only hopes it’s not a sore subject now, years of hard work and all the gold he’s spent on costly trimmings from exotic plants from around the world, potentially washed away along with everything else. But turning back to her, his smile grows.

“They’re already harvested,” he says, voice exhilarated despite his lower, confiding tone.

“Well done!” Surprised into a genuine smile, Hermione pats his arm but pauses as something occurs to her. “They don’t need a stasis charm to remain fresh or anything?”

“They work just as well dry, based on the few experiments I was able to do,” Neville says. He tilts his head. “Why?”

“They’re Healing plants, right? Revolutionary, you’ve called them,” she says slowly, and takes a breath. “How revolutionary?”

Neville’s face falls as he catches her meaning. He says, “No. It’s not… It’s not like that. It can’t bring back anything from the dead. It needs a measure of life to cling to. Inferi— They change too fast, and that change is irreversible. I’m sorry, Hermione; I never meant to imply… To make it sound like—”

“Still." Hermione nods — how wonderful it would have been to discover some sort of cure-all resting in their laps the entire time — and does her best to mask her disappointment. "Maybe we can find some sort of use for them. Madam Pompfrey’s supplies are so low, anything would help. If you came up with a draught she could use…”

“Well, in Herbology, you end up learning a few things about potions whether you want to or not, and I’m pretty solid about theory at this point. But Hermione…” Neville’s lips quirk. “You do remember me in Potions class, don’t you?” he asks with unselfconscious humour. “Eventually, with the proper people, it would probably be simple enough. If I tried to do it, I’d probably end up exploding half the castle.”

“No! Merlin, I’d never ask _you_ to execute the—” She stops when Neville laughs, a rush of heat rising in her cheeks. Sheepish, she says, “I just meant, theory. What ingredients we have on hand that might work, which ones would cause interactions.”

“Sure, I could do that. But potions aren’t working on us right now.”

“Could you figure out a way to make it Muggle-friendly?” 

Neville considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t think so, not entirely. Not without help. But the Unspeakables are busy, even if I were willing to trust them with my research.” _Which I’m not_ is heavily implied in his expression, a sentiment Hermione secretly agrees with.

“What about Anthony?” she asks. “He’s as good a potions master as I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah,” he says, brightening. “I could ask him.”

“Brilliant." Hermione hesitates when he doesn't immediately respond, nor make to leave. It feels oddly similar to that moment of near-escape in her morning meetings, so she decides to go with it. "Um. Was there something else?" 

Neville shifts from one foot to the other, his gaze flickering over her face. Quiet and serious, he says, "I just wondered how you are." 

Oh. 

Hermione swallows and looks at the knot of his red-and-gold striped tie because his eyes are too kind; guileless, but uncomfortably knowing as well. 

"I'm fine," she says, then promptly amends, "As well as— as any of us can expect, I suppose." 

"You look…" 

That brings her face back up, and she arranges her expression in the approximation of amusement at his obvious reluctance to go on. "How flattering."

Neville's smile is disarming. He relaxes. "Tired, I was going to say." 

"I am, a little." Surely it's not a weakness to admit _that._ "I can do what needs to be done, though." 

"I've never thought otherwise," Neville says, earnest as ever. "But I'm here if you ever, you know, need anything." 

Hermione's eyes smart. Neville might be the only person she knows who would make such a gentle offer, in such an unassuming way, without one inkling of how painfully it might cut her in half. She doesn't know how she's got half so lucky as she has, to know the men she does. To inspire their affection and concern. But the last thing she wants him to do is worry.

When she can bring herself to speak again, she says, "Thank you," giving it the proper weight it deserves. "I know." She returns his smile. "And, whatever comes of it— congratulations on your research, Neville, really.” Impulsively, she lifts on her toes and presses a swift, pleased kiss to his cheek. That she knew exactly to what degree she ought to rise only occurs to her as she comes back down to her heels. 

Suddenly off-balance, Hermione gazes up at him blankly, smile frozen on her face. She sees the wash of pink over his cheeks and the widening of his bashful grin as if through a tunnel, and from a distance. 

“You should— go,” she says. Her voice sounds funny. Strained. Clearing her throat, she tries again. “Talk to Anthony and then, um. Go find Hannah for breakfast. You probably haven’t got to spend much time together since…” She makes a vague gesture and forces a laugh when Neville gives her an emphatic nod. He says something she doesn’t quite catch, gives her arm a friendly squeeze, and heads out. 

Hermione watches him go until he's out of sight. Until she's sure her legs will continue to hold her up. Then she sets her shoulders and walks down the corridor.

Standing from behind her desk when Hermione slips into her office, Minerva gives her a curious look. She waits until Hermione has shut the door, then says, “The note was from Narcissa?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, relaxing a bit. She comes closer, pulls out the note. “Requesting an audience, just as you predicted.”

“Mm. I was a day off.” Minerva removes her spectacles, leaving them to dangle from the delicate chain around her neck, and puts her fingers to her eyes for a beat. Setting her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, she lowers into her chair and unfolds the note, gaze moving swiftly over the parchment. “Would you like me to talk to Madam Pince?”

“I’ll go there after this.”

“Not to see our guest?” Minerva asks with an arch smile.

“No.” Hermione chuckles. “I think I’ll write her a return note, let her know to expect me after lunch. I suspect it’d be a mistake to allow her to think I’m at her beck.”

“I suspect you’re right.” Minerva gestures to one of the chairs across from her desk. “Is there something else on your mind?” 

Hermione takes her preferred seat, just to the right. As her gaze settles on the fire popping merrily in the hearth, her mind wanders back to Neville and she’s seized with the abrupt, painful wish that the room was cold and dark. With the fire lit, everything feels too normal somehow, reminds her too much of visiting this office as a child.

Before she'd had Harry and Ron, she’d come here nearly every day. Excluded from the Friday-night slumber parties thrown by even the other Muggle-born Gryffindor girls, scoffed at across all Houses for every one of her raised hands and right answers, she’d pretended to come to her Head of House with questions — she’d had so many — when really, she’d just been lonely. And Minerva had never turned her away, only asking her to wait if she had another student visiting, answering her questions patiently, calm and capable even the night Hermione had shown up in tears after getting her first period.

In retrospect, Hermione understands her own fluster, but she can still recall how embarrassed she’d been for crying; it wasn’t as if her mum hadn’t explained puberty already, wasn’t as though she hadn’t done research and been fully prepared for its logistics. Yet Minerva had cut off her apologies with a gentle hand to her shoulder, guiding Hermione to one of the cushioned chairs by the fire. She’d brought tissues, and tea with a splash of Calming draught, and a tin of chocolate biscuits; she’d given Hermione a wooly tartan blanket to rest over her lap. Only then did she ask if Hermione needed supplies, or had any questions, and when Hermione had shaken her head, she’d lapsed into a comfortable silence, sipping her own tea, stirring it, refreshing it with Charms when it cooled. Her brusque warmth and steady presence had been its own sort of magic, and Hermione knows that if she’d not had that to rely on back then, when everything felt so new and big and raw, her whole life’s trajectory might have been different. 

For nearly twenty years, Minerva’s office has been a haven, a stretch of placid waters in the midst of a turbulent sea. Hermione only wishes being in it still felt like enough to cheat some of her loneliness away.

“Hermione?” 

Hermione drags her gaze from the fire and collects herself. “Excuse me. I was just…Well, I stopped to talk to Neville.”

She outlines their discussion briefly, and Minerva nods with interest, drumming her fingertips contemplatively against her desktop when Hermione’s done. “I see. Would they be testing it on themselves?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, disturbed she hadn’t considered that. “And I wouldn’t want the elves to be involved. But it might be irrelevant; we’ll cross that hurdle when we come to it, I suppose.” 

Minerva doesn’t belabour the point. “And Narcissa? Would you like me to accompany you?”

“Yes.” Hermione sighs and grimaces. “Though you probably shouldn’t. Your presence might do more harm than good. She’s more reserved around you, whereas I think I've surprised her a few times. And I have the feeling that she enjoys matching wits with a mudblood,” she says baldly. At Minerva's raised eyebrow and pursed lips, Hermione lifts her shoulders, matter-of-fact. No reason to pretty up the truth of it, in her opinion.

“Perhaps.” Minerva gives her a sceptical look. “I do, however, hope you’ll keep in mind the prospect that her goal might be to put you off centre. Which is not to say I don’t have faith in your ability to compartmentalise,” she qualifies when Hermione’s brow knits, “simply that Narcissa has always been thorough, even as a child. And she’s been keeping her own council for far too long.” She shakes her head and makes a small, dissatisfied sound. 

Hermione follows her train of thought — she’s worried Narcissa will say something about Ron. That she’ll lie about what’s happened to him, or… or tell the truth, to gain the upper hand.

“I know,” she says softly. Narcissa won't be without her weapons. Fighting a chill, Hermione turns back to the fire with the sudden premonition that the time for sparring has come to an end.

* * *

Harry can feel each and every one of Draco’s glances as the morning wears on, but his silence no longer feels like a reprimand; rather, it feels like a commitment he’s making to trust that Harry will stop when he’s reached his limit. That, more than anything, is the reason Harry does earlier than he needs to, even though his estimation gives him another hour or so before the pain starts affecting his faculties.

That, and the close-knit cluster of buildings about a quarter of a mile off the road they’re following. 

They don’t correlate with any town Harry remembers seeing on the map. Then again, he’s taken them further east than he originally plotted, to give them a break from the main path of the storm, and to put some distance between them and the more heavily populated areas they’ve been approaching as they get closer to the coast. He glances at Draco. “Feel anything?”

“Fucking wet.” Draco rubs a hand over his face when Harry snorts, then follows Harry’s gaze. After a beat, he shakes his head and sighs. Gives Harry a half-shrug. “No. But I never claimed to be Trelawney.”

Harry snorts and leads them from the road. 

The buildings turn out to be a tiny, devastated village. Harry doesn’t want to use a place they can’t fortify if he doesn’t have to — most of the houses are decorated with shattered windows and broken doors — but they happen upon luck in the form of a little, abandoned stable, old but well-maintained. A lot of luck: no lingering scent of livestock indicates that it’s not been used to house animals recently; the glassless windows are shuttered from the inside; there’s a locked door at the back giving them more than one potential exit, and the wooden doors at the front are on sliders, handles bound together from the outside with a loosely-knotted length of rope. 

Untying them, Harry gestures for Draco to stand back, then slides one of the doors open. It gives off the barest whisper of a squeak, and Harry pulls his machete and steps inside, relaxing when no crazed Inferi dart out at him. Instead, it’s just what it looks like from the outside — a musty shelter that hasn’t been used in weeks, if not longer, smelling of nothing more offensive than hay and hard-packed dirt. Six horse stalls decorate both sides, each of them cluttered near to the brim with household odds and ends. An empty tack room at the far end has a door with bolted locks. Harry sheathes his machete before waving Draco in and rolling the door closed. He latches the doors tight with the metal cinch hanging from one of the inside handles.

“Indoors,” Draco says, glancing around. “I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.”

“You'll have to get back into the habit or else risk looking like a tourist, I suppose," Harry says. "I'll be providing this sort of luxury more often from now on, gratis. You're welcome." 

"And when might I anticipate the return to such opulence?"

"We’ll stay here for the night.”

Draco does a double-take, his eyebrows climbing. “How injured _are_ you?”

Harry breathes a laugh and leans against a stall door, the pain he’s been holding at bay washing over him. “Injured enough to admit I could probably use a bit of help now.”

Sarcasm evaporating, Draco fumbles the bags from his shoulders and drops to one knee. Dizzy, Harry watches as he pulls out their medical supplies — fortunately, the clothing resting at the bottom of the bag has kept them from getting wet — and organises them in a tidy, manageable row. Included among them is the medical tape Harry used as a brace, which he’d frankly pay to never see again. 

“Don’t need that,” Harry says, grunting a little with the effort it takes to get out of his jacket and shirt. His hand has started to hurt worse than his side, but he keeps his glove on for the moment and drops his wet clothing to the ground. He opens his flies one-handed and tugs his jeans around his hips.

“I’ll decide that for myself, thanks.” Draco assembles a few things in his arms and stands, turning back to Harry. He falters for a beat, then strides over, mouth turned down at the corners, a disapproving bow. Harry concentrates on the quiet drum of rain against the tinned roof as Draco probes the wound above his hip. “Tell me,” Draco murmurs without looking up, “how did you share your magic with me?”

Eyes trained on the far wall, Harry says, “I don’t know,” and hears Draco scoff under his breath. “I don’t. I just — fuck, ow —” he blows out a hard breath “— somehow knew you’d got… lost, needed my help. I followed the thread of that thought to find you, but it resulted in… that.”

“A thread,” Draco says thoughtfully. 

“Why’s that interesting?”

“It implies the link was already there.” 

“It was,” Harry says with a slow, considering nod. “Yeah.”

Draco pauses to tear open a package of gauze with his teeth and spit out the fluttering hem of paper clinging to his tongue. “That shouldn’t be possible,” he says, using the gauze to dab at Harry’s side. Then: “You could have stopped, when you realised what you were doing.”

Harry doesn’t bother with a denial. Draco knows far more about the topic than he does, anyway — _too_ much to believe any lie Harry could come up with right now. “Once I’d done it, I thought it might obscure the draw of your magic. I cut the link when you were far enough away; I had four of them coming at me, couldn’t hold it any longer.”

“Mm.” Draco drops to his knees again, lips thinning when Harry sucks in a breath. He fiddles with something, casts an unreadable glance upward, and says, “Hold still.”

“I am holding— _shit!_ ” Harry yelps, startled by a wet sizzle of pain racing across his nerves.

Draco smirks. “Alcohol.” He cheerfully continues torturing Harry half-to-death for about a year, then sits back on his heels and frowns. 

“What?”

“This is… bad.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, although he’s starting to get a little lightheaded from blood loss. “Put a bandage on it. It’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps in two or three weeks.” Draco stands and returns to his bag. He digs around in it for a moment, then comes back, spreading his hand open to reveal two beads. Confused, Harry reaches out, but Draco closes his fingers over them. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “If— Since we’re already linked…”

Dumbly, Harry absorbs the proposition. There’s a line that exists between the urgent mingling of magic, for emergency’s sake, and doing it deliberately, to simplify things — there must be. Harry glances up from Draco’s closed hand, a ‘no’ on the tip of his tongue, but Draco’s expression stops him; he’s gone almost preternaturally still but for his bobbing Adam’s apple, his face set in cynical lines. It’s clear which answer he expects. 

Harry licks his lips. “Okay.”

“What?” Draco blinks.

“Okay,” Harry says, firmer this time. “Yeah. Just— wait a second.” He lifts his injured hand to his mouth. Raises his eyes to the ceiling. Then, with a shaky breath, he bites down on the loose leather over the pinky finger of his glove, and slowly tugs it from his hand with his teeth. His body flashes hot, then cold, as he drops the glove.

“ _What the—!_ ” 

“Don’t—” Harry says, cringing. “I don’t want to know what I’ve done to it.” He’s just glad it’s not his wand hand. “But you might as well do both.”

“I— Yes,” Draco says, abruptly terse. He pulls Harry’s wand from his thigh holster and, in his periphery, Harry sees him toss the beads into his mouth. “Don’t look, and keep quiet if you can. I have to focus, and this—” Harry hears him gulp. “This is going to hurt.”

Obediently, Harry shuts his mouth. Draco draws out an exhale, then gently pushes the tip of Harry’s wand against the wound at his hip. Harry grinds his teeth against the pain of muscle regeneration, his flesh stitching itself back together. He barely has time to acclimatise himself to it when molten pain sears through his hand. He starts to pull away, tries to, but Draco is fast at grabbing his wrist, so Harry pinches his eyes shut and bites down on his tongue to keep from yelling out. His bones pulse with protest, crack and realign, his skin closing around them — yet the heat keeps on, long after a normal Healing spell might have faded. 

Then Draco breaths, _”Bugger,_ ”, and a golden kindle of warmth ignites in Harry’s chest: Draco’s magic, curling through him soft as smoke. The pain lessens by increments, and when Draco finally pulls away, taking his magic with him, he’s panting and pink and flustered. Flexing his aching hand, Harry opens his eyes and stares at Draco’s profile, unwillingly aroused, his heart beating too fast. The colour in Draco's cheeks rapidly cools and takes on a greyish tinge.

“It’ll hurt for a few days, there was too much damage to fully repair both of them.” Draco mutters, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “There are probably specialists who can, later.” 

Throat working, he bends and presses another piece of gauze to Harry’s hip — which may not be fully healed, but feels a damn sight better. As he tapes the gauze in place, Harry forces himself to look at his hand. To take in its new shape. It looks strange without a pinky, but… “You saved the pisiform,” he says blankly. 

“About half,” Draco says, peeling off more tape. He snorts. “Pisiform? Broken it before, have you?”

Harry refuses to dignify that with a yes. In any case, the result isn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be; Draco even managed to mend the metacarpals that had snapped under the pressure of Apparition. The scar stretching along the outside of Harry's hand isn’t pretty, has the look of something that’s just been cauterised — burnt raw and still oozing a bit of blood — but it’s something he can live with. Easily. 

“Thanks,” he says when Draco straightens and takes his hand. 

Draco shrugs and briskly presses a length of gauze along the scarline, gentling his touch when Harry hisses, then retrieves that cursed bandage, and winds it around his hand a few times. He uses Harry’s machete to cut the trailing bit of bandage that remains, ties everything in place, and starts to let go. But Harry reverses their grip before he can, catching hold of Draco’s wrist despite the slice of pain it brings him, and Draco glances up, startled. His face is still grey, greasy with sweat. Whatever he did to anesthetise Harry during his Healing wasn’t without a cost.

“Thank you,” Harry says again, seriously. “For this, and for— for coming back, too. I should have said so, before.”

“Well.” The look Draco gives him is sombre. “You’re a shit conversationalist, but I wasn’t exactly raised to hunt my own food, so I’m willing to make the compromise.”

Harry cracks a surprised laugh. Draco twitches a guarded smile at him, then pulls from Harry’s grip and turns his back in a way Harry supposes means he's not quite forgiven yet. He wonders if he should make more of an apology before expecting such a thing. Wonders how much there is, really, that he should be apologising for. 

“I’ll set us up a place to sleep tonight,” Draco says at length, "if you warm up something for us to eat. You should rest for a while." 

Studying the stiff line of Draco’s shoulders, Harry responds with a pointless nod. "But, later," he says with uncharacteristic insecurity, "if you're willing... there's something I want to show you." 

Belatedly, Harry realises what a vague request it is. How many ways Draco might misconstrue it. But Draco just slants Harry an unreadable glance and jerks his chin in a short nod before moving to his pack. A yes, without even asking what Harry has in mind. 

Harry exhales, then gets to work.

* * *

_Draco is all I care for now,_ Narcissa told her the last time they spoke. It's one of the only things she's said that had the utter ring of truth to it.

Pacing in the empty, cavernous corridor, Hermione rolls the thought around in her mind. She follows it down every potential path, considers every manipulative meaning, until she can only arrive at a single conclusion: Lucius Malfoy is truly dead. That was not a lie. 

Hermione rests her head against the doors of the Healing ward. She breathes. 

_And what happened to my husband?_

Far worse than the probability that she’s lost Ron is the idea that he's out there walking gracelessly, beautiful blue eyes gone white, with a decomposing face full of features she knows better than her own. That he might not recognise the children they made together, or _her_ , oh god, that he might look at _her_ and only see his own hunger...

Still, Hermione has to know. Whether it might happen, what to tell Hugo and Rose. How best to prepare them all. 

But she can’t — won’t — walk in smelling of desperation, no matter how many cards Narcissa holds. No matter what she knows, or how much pleasure she’d take in refusing to share her information. Narcissa can loathe everything about Hermione to her heart’s content, but in doing so she’ll only be underestimating the youngest Headmistress in the history of Hogwarts, a witch with enough control over her powers to have worn a Horcrux when she was just a girl, and a woman good enough to be loved by Ron Weasley. One who, Narcissa perhaps needs reminding, has an assassin a single phone call away. 

Taking a deep breath, she opens the door and strides through. She keeps her eyes forward, fixed on the little room guarded by two elves at the end of the ward. Threats polished and at the ready, she lets herself into Narcissa's room. 

And stops.

The world bends. Blurs. When it snaps back into sharp focus, her daughter is still there, the strains of Rose's laughter fading from the air. Her open smile dissolves into something stricken. Guilty. 

"Mummy?"

Rose stares up at her from where she sits at Narcissa's side, eyes huge in her small face. From the moment she first opened them, it was clear she’d inherited Ron's eyes; their colour is so similar, she's already got used to hearing the comparison made, like Harry's had to, about his mum's. Hermione has just enough time to spare for that thought before Rose is shrieking, her body thrown atop Narcissa's. 

" _No, Mummy, I'm sorry, she’s my friend!_ "

Hermione's voice shakes. "Move _away_ from her, Rose." Her wand is hot in her hand, violent magic swirling through her so fast she doesn't know if she can contain it. She meets Narcissa's gaze. "Let her _go._ "

Narcissa pats Rose's trembling shoulders calmly. A mother's touch. Hermione hears herself snarl as she steps closer for truer aim. 

"It's quite alright, my dear," Narcissa murmurs to Rose, eyes locked with Hermione's, but Rose is sobbing too hard to pay attention. Narcissa lowers her mouth to Rose's temple. "Your mummy would never hurt me. Remember, darling? She's only surprised. We've kept some secrets, which perhaps we should not have done." 

Vibrating with the need to snatch her child away from this monster's arms, Hermione forces her arm down when Rose hiccups, sniffling, and raises her head. She looks to Narcissa first, trustingly, but when her gaze slides over to Hermione, it's unsure. 

"I'm only—" Hermione swallows against the rise of bile in her throat. "Narcissa is right, darling. I'm very surprised, but I shouldn't have lost my temper. I'm sorry." 

Rose buries her face back in Narcissa's shoulder. Hermione grits her teeth at the subtle triumph shining in Narcissa's eyes. 

"Are you very cross?" Rose asks, muffled. 

"I'm… yes," Hermione says. "You know you shouldn't be sneaking around places you've not been given permission to go. And we will be discussing it later, Rose. B-but for now, I need to talk to Narcissa, and you need to— Please go to Neville and Hannah's quarters." 

"I don't want to leave," Rose says, voice small. Hermione realises with a stabbing pain that it's not directed at her as Narcissa strokes over the flame of Rose's hair.

"Shush, now, and do as your mummy says. Cissy needs to talk with her, too," Narcissa tells her, pressing a kiss to the top of her curls. "There's a good girl."

Rose allows herself to be guided off the bed. Once she's out of range, Hermione's magic slams through her again, a burning reminder. She keeps her arm at her side as Rose trudges over to her, face downcast, and proceeds to lean against her hip. One of her little arms comes up to curl tight around Hermione's waist. 

"I'm sorry, mummy." 

"Go," Hermione says, gentle as she can. "We'll talk about it later."

Rose hesitates, then detaches herself. Hermione watches the slump of her shoulders as she makes her way from the room. The door clicks behind her, and Hermione whips around, brandishing her wand… Only to meet the sight of a wand gripped in Narcissa's hand, its tip leveled with her face. 

Neither of them move for a moment. 

Narcissa says, "Your moral high ground is quickly losing altitude. How do you think your daughter might react if she finds out about her new best friends' death so soon after a meeting like that?" 

"She'll understand, someday," Hermione says. "How _dare_ —?" 

"Rose is beside the point, my dear." Narcissa's hand remains steady, though Hermione's has begun to tremble and grow damp. "She's merely a tool for my use. A convenient way to impress upon you the lengths I am willing to go, to protect my son."

"I will _kill_ him," Hermione breathes. 

Narcissa's smile is cold. "You will not. What I know—"

"Yes, we've been studying it." Hermione's laughter rings wild, tinged with panic. "Did you really think I'd be so naive not to tell the elves to bring me _every single thing_ you wrote down? Every single list?" Narcissa's lips tighten with displeasure, and Hermione laughs again. "Your order of secrecy doesn't supersede the ones I made before it. I knew you’d try something like that. For days now, we’ve been studying the same books on necromancy you’ve been requesting."

"You didn't know I've been meeting with your daughter for weeks. Nor once ask any of the right questions. You won’t hurt my son." 

"Watch me." Hermione has to swallow. It occurs to her that without the rage lining her heart, her magic might wisp uselessly into the atmosphere. That if it doesn't, she could do real harm to those living in the castle. The knowledge should incentivise her to lower her wand. But she can't. "Yes. _Watch me._ Because you’ll have to wait for your death. I will hurt you. I will _slice you up_ , but I will keep you alive, so the last thing you see is Draco's blood spraying over your _face_ , you mad fucking bitch." 

"You _will not,_ " Narcissus repeats, her voice like a lash. "Not if you love your daughter even a fraction of the amount I love my son." Hermione's heart stops; the slow smirk purses Narcissa’s lips is one of the most terrifying things she's ever seen. Narcissa tilts her head and says, "Pobble?" 

Hermione barely keeps herself from startling when a tiny elf pops into the room. She's got a small feather dish rag tucked into her tea towel, and she looks back and forth between Hermione and Narcissa.

"H-how can Pobble be of service to Mistress Malfoy today?" 

Narcissa ignores the question, directing her words at Hermione. "It's a powerful spell," she says, calm once more. "The magic required for it, however, is quite simple. Even the most base of magical children have been known to manage it, in more certain times. Although it's not," she adds lightly, "as though I don't have some to spare. Pobble, if you please?" 

Pobble steps closer, one ear nervously twirled around one long finger. Hermione watches, her stomach twisting in on itself, as Pobble stretches her free hand towards Narcissa. 

"You won't do _anything_ to hurt me, _or_ my son," Narcissa says, and ruthlessly pulls a gasp from the elf as she steals a bit of her magic. A glow appears at the tip of the wand she's holding. "Now ask me why." 

"Why?" Hermione asks. Her lips have gone numb. 

"You won’t..." Narcissa says, and dismissively flicks the wand she's holding. 

The glow bursts forth. It drifts for a beat, curling in on itself and spreading, a slender ribbon of fire dropped through the air; slowly, it coils around Narcissa's wrist. The loose ends reach outward, passing Hermione to stretch through the door — flexible, elastic. Unbreakable. 

Narcissa smiles. "...because your daughter made me a promise."


	11. I John 3:18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sheepish* Hey everyone. So, uh, you know that goal I set about putting up one chapter per week? ...Yeah, it seems that was a mite unrealistic. And I'm so sorry, really, I hate disappointing anyone, but due to circumstances beyond my control, I'm not able to work as often as I want to lately. (Read: I'm not blocked, am feeling pretty inspired actually, but there are a host of rl things I need to do/pay attention to atm that cut into my writing time.) So I'm adjusting my goal to a chapter every two weeks. Of course, if I'm able to get them out faster, I _absolutely_ will — though I hope everyone will understand if I'm (a little) late here and there. <3

Harry’s eyes are dark. He gives Draco an approving smile, moves back as far as he can in their tight quarters, and lifts the collar of his t-shirt to wipe away the trail of sweat working its way down his temple. “That was perfect,” he says, a little breathless. “Switch.”

Passing over his weapon in one hand, Draco takes Harry’s in the other. A pinch of pain tugs at his heart, but… it's only a pinch. The extreme shudder of torment that he’s been associating with his wand has lessened significantly since Harry’s begun working with him in this capacity. He prefers Harry’s — the sturdier hilt, the lighter heft of metal to the blade — but thinks that’s precisely what these training sessions are about: his preferences are beside the point. 

“Perfect would have been watching your head roll,” says Draco. He purses his lips when Harry grins, nods to concede the point, and bounces slightly on the balls of his bare feet. 

“Try to make it happen, then,” Harry says, an arrogant tilt broadening his grin. His bearing is confident, his body firm yet flexible. He dips his chin. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Glaring, Draco surprises Harry with a beat that knocks his blade to the side with the soft screech of metal-on-metal. He lunges and Harry bends back, evading Draco’s swing by mere inches before parrying, the shaft of his weapon angling across his chest to block Draco’s second and third swings, which grow increasingly sloppy as his frustration mounts. They engage in a flurry of counters — up, down, high inside — that push Draco from the foot of ground he gained with his original moves and back into his starting position, and then back further. A panting laugh breaks free from Harry's throat when Draco growls and drops, propping himself with one hand flat on the floor as he jabs the tip of his sword upward, and he nearly catches Harry in the thigh, but Harry jumps back in time. His hip knocks into one of the filing cabinets; it clangs against the wall, sheafs of papers falling from the top and thumping against the floor. 

Habit has both of them freezing in place. After a moment, Harry’s smile ticks up again, rueful this time. He lowers his weapon. 

“Good,” he says. “That was really good.”

Draco shakes his head and climbs to his feet. Once he’s got his breath back, he says, “I haven’t even managed to scratch you.” Whereas Harry’s had to pull his lunges on multiple occasions to keep from stabbing Draco through. That fact might not be so aggravating if Harry seemed remotely concerned that Draco could hurt him, but he’s so far refused all of the precautionary measures Draco proposed for their lessons.

“Stop whinging,” Harry says. Leaning against a desk, he opens a bottle of water and drinks for several seconds, throat working, then passes over the remains. “In case you’ve forgotten, ‘scratching’ me, probably means ‘killing’ me. I’ve had ten years to learn advanced combat skills. You took fencing for, what, a couple of years as a kid?”

“Three,” Draco mutters, finishing his water. Sullen probably isn’t a very good look on a man his age, but surely not _all_ of Harry’s training has been with swords; something about Draco's inability to present a real challenge to Harry reads as off given how much Draco apparently remembers of what his fencing instructor taught him. Most of the techniques learned in fencing can be directly applied to magical duelling, and the majority of those were ingrained in Draco before he even got his wand. “From the summer I turned nine to the summer before second year. I should be able to stab you a _little_ , by now.” 

A tiny smirk plays with Harry’s lips and, narrowly, Draco studies him. He’s let himself get too used to interpreting Harry’s expressions through the beard he’d been growing, and its absence keeps throwing him off. Newly shaved, Harry’s face is darkly tanned from mid-cheek up and pale lower down; the whole effect implies shadows where they don’t exist. But Draco does note that Harry avoids his eyes as he makes his way to the window, favouring his healing hip. Harry tweaks the curtain aside, looks out for a moment, and sighs. “They’ve almost doubled overnight.”

“We knew they probably would.” Draco pauses and strains his neck to catch his own glimpse, over Harry's shoulder. The Inferi wander listlessly in the car park outside, their numbers increased but their direction confused; they clearly have no idea where the magic they’re sensing is coming from. “Are we any less safe?” 

Harry’s done well spiriting them through increasingly populated areas to Coquelles and finding them shelter every night; the office they’ve holed up in is the best place yet. Nine levels up, it's got a private, if dated, loo, as well as a heavy locking door between them and the empty, open office space beyond — which is also locked. Most importantly, the office has a fire escape ladder out each of the windows, their legs pulled well out of reach from the Inferi below, which he and Harry will use to escape via the roof when it’s time to go. But as grateful as Draco is for the walls surrounding them, their protections only go so far. 

“No, we’re fine,” Harry says.

“How long do we have before the call?”

Harry checks his watch and Draco looks away. Even more than Harry’s faint limp, the sight of his left hand, misshapen and scarred tender, churns more of Draco’s feelings to the surface than he’s willing to examine. A twisted vision of Harry that day in the stablehouse — bleeding and grey-faced, holding out a hand punctured through with cracked bones as the green of his eyes turns white — has already begun featuring prominently in his dreams of Pansy. Unconscious and terrified, Draco’s been stirring them both into startled wakefulness by instinctively seeking out the thread of combined magic that lies dormant between them to reassure himself Harry is okay. 

Harry never comments on it, doesn’t seem to mind more than a sleepy frown at Draco indicates, but Draco would just as soon avoid blatant reminders that might instigate his more graphic dreams.

“Less than two hours now,” Harry says. 

The dull, patterned carpet is nubby under Draco’s socked feet. Uncushioned, as though the decorator simply installed the least expensive flooring they could find over a slab of concrete, and unpleasantly worn too, from years of being trod upon without care. Draco curls his toes into it and takes a breath. 

“We need to talk about something,” he says. 

Harry huffs a soft laugh — not the reaction Draco had been expecting. He lifts his head to find Harry’s gaze on him, shining with amusement. 

“Fine, but — I want to be clear — I’m only telling you because I don't think we'll be able to practice again,” he says. “Which means _you don’t point a weapon at me after you know._ ” That last he adds with a hypocritical jab of Draco’s wand in his direction, for emphasis.

Draco blinks, surprised. “Uhm.”

“You have a tell, Draco.” The little smirk is back, flitting around the edges of Harry’s mouth and then graduating into a full smile that makes Draco suspicious. 

“What are you talking about, _Potter_?” he asks, refusing to feel bad when Harry’s smile dims. Though they’ve settled somewhere friendlier between that terse chill after Harry spoke with Granger and… and whatever they might have been before that, Harry’s the one who first reverted to using surnames, so Draco deems it safer to be circumspect; for all he knows, after today’s call, Harry will appreciate his presence of mind. He raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“A tell,” Harry repeats, nodding. “Well, a few. But one of them is obvious enough to give me clear advantage: You keep dropping your shoulder.” 

Draco slices the air with Harry’s machete, in automatic rejection of Harry’s criticism. “No, I don’t.” 

“You do,” Harry says and, stung, Draco repeats the swing; it feels just fine. He says as much, and Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Then that’s what matters.”

“Not the fun you had catering to your ego rather than telling me?”

The look Harry levels at him is at once chastened and entertained. “Inferi aren’t going to be critiquing your form. But I— I suppose I—” He hesitates, ruffles his hair with his fingers, and then, as though he doesn’t see Draco’s glower, sets Draco’s wand on the desk and gestures. “Move to the centre?”

Against his better judgement, Draco takes a few steps forward. Harry exhales, his lips tightening briefly, and then he rounds the desk to step behind Draco and presses close. Gentling Draco with a firm hand at the waist when Draco startles and tenses, Harry pauses, then slips his hand around and flattens it, spreading three fingers and his thumb over Draco’s stomach. 

“Potter—” 

“Just— wait a second.” 

Draco swallows, resolutely ignoring the feel of Harry’s heat against his body from shoulder to knee. Ignoring the way Harry does nothing to control the shudder that ripples through him as he applies pressure with his hand to plaster them together, nestling his twitching prick against the crevice of Draco’s arse. Ignoring, as well as he can, how his own body responds to the sensation. 

Finally, Harry clears his throat. “Okay, ah, let me just...” Using his body, he guides Draco’s torso in a twist, left then right. “Your sense of balance is good, and you hold your core muscles right, but—” The hand on Draco’s stomach slides to his ribcage, holds Draco in place with a featherlight touch. With his other hand, Harry grips the ball of Draco’s shoulder, rotates it, then runs his palm down Draco’s arm, making minute adjustments in the angle of Draco’s elbow relative to his flank, before ringing his fingers around Draco’s wrist. He notches his hips back just enough to allow for the pretence of respectability, and rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “Try it now.”

Draco blows out a breath. He arcs Harry’s machete back, swings it forward at a slant. _Clip them at the neck,_ Harry had explained in the stable, _or the wrists._ Harry leads Draco in another motion, downward with a twist, and Merlin’s shitting robes, Draco _can_ feel it now, an instinctive drop of his shoulder in a bid to minimise the weight of the weapon. And no wonder — it's something he's never had to think about with his wand before which, for almost twenty years, has felt like an extension of his hand. Yet, focused, Harry points it out each time Draco does it, tapping him in the elbow or shoulder or, with two fingers, on the wrist, before Draco goes again. _They’re not much bothered by hits to the torso unless you can get them in the spine, but it might buy you a second or two_. Another swing, angling up, _Through the brain stem, don’t freeze up. Like that. Yes. Again. Again_...

Harry takes him through several circuits, the same basic motions he taught Draco during their first lesson, only this time fixing the subtle mistakes that might cost Draco a win in a more formal fight. But he continues on long after the new arrangement of Draco’s limbs stops feeling so foreign; he continues on until Draco is nothing more than a puppet, all of his concentration poured into the slow rasp of Harry’s chest against his back. Realising it, Draco’s heart stutters, and he stiffens abruptly. Stops, mid-swing. 

“I think—” Draco clears his throat. “That's probably enough.”

Harry’s breath is hot and uneven against Draco’s jaw; he tightens his fingers around Draco’s forearm. It feels like a question. Draco shivers and rolls it through in his mind, this unacknowledged thing that pulses between them each night before they go to sleep, and every time they wake up tangled. Wishful thinking, that Harry wants it as badly as Draco does. That Harry spends as much time contemplating what it might be like without having to justify their want by applying it to anything else. But Harry’s been careful not to make reference either in word or deed, keeping Draco at arm's length until this moment. 

And there lies the answer to Harry's unasked question. Desire is one thing but Harry’s trust, like the safety established with walls, only extends so far.

Draco pulls gently against Harry’s hold. “I’ve got it, Potter. Thank you.” 

He hears Harry take a gulp of air, feels the rise of Harry’s chest at his back. And then Harry’s solid heat is replaced with cool air, and Harry has moved to face the door to the outer office. He rests his hand against the doorknob, but doesn’t twist it. His voice is hoarse. “Sorry. I didn’t mean...”

Draco tempers the bitter twist of his lips before Harry can see it. But honestly. If ever an obvious statement has been made. 

“I know,” Draco says. He rubs his hand over his face to mask the residual warmth of his flush and moves to sit in the chair behind the desk, placing Harry’s machete next to his wand. He rotates the chair to face the window. The storms have mostly raged themselves out in the last few days, and diluted light pours in through a crack in the curtains. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, none of that—” he gestures to the empty space where they stood together “—was what I needed to talk to you about. To tell you.” 

There’s a long silence, and then Draco hears the quiet shuffle of Harry’s footsteps behind him. Hears Harry sit down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Something important?”

“Yes. I don’t know.” Draco closes his eyes. Tips his head back. “I think, yes. Potentially significant. I can’t— I’ve tried to work out the implications, but it only leaves me with more questions.”

“So not a _new_ potentially significant question,” Harry says slowly.

“No.”

“Why not bring it up before, then?” Harry asks. “Maybe it’s something I could have helped you with, or tried to. Maybe it’s something I know more about.”

Draco considers what to say to that. None of the things that immediately come to mind are very nice, nor would Harry want to hear them: that it takes an effort to talk to Harry at all lately, let alone about matters that might feel personal; that Harry isn't the only one whose trust has been shaken in the wake of his talk with Granger. That courage may be as natural to Harry as breathing, but others have to work on it.

He lands on a middling truth, instead: “I was going to mention it — before the call. But I was hoping I might be able to offer a solution. It’s half of what I do, piecing old information together to make new things work.”

“Where I just blunder in with a wand and brute magical strength,” Harry says. But his sarcasm is underweighted by a vague sort of hurt, and Draco swivels in his chair to face him.

“No.” Draco takes in the conflict etched over Harry’s brow, the unhappy shape of Harry’s mouth. He drawls, “From what I’ve read, you’ve usually got good intentions, too.”

Scoffing a laugh, Harry relaxes. He rubs his knuckles against his jaw and slants Draco an olive-branch smile. “What did you — potentially, significantly — realise?”

“That last morning...” Draco’s unfinished sentence dangles hesitantly between them, and Harry’s half smile fades. Draco clears his throat, nods. “That last morning we were in the tent, I made a comment about your service to me.”

Harry straightens and crosses his arms, a bit defensive. “You said I’d be no good to you if I was dead. But even if something happens to me, now you’ll at least be able to… Wait.” His posture loosens; his face grows thoughtful. “This isn’t about you being worried I won’t protect you, or that I’ll intentionally sacrifice myself,” he says. “Service?” And then, his eyes widening: “Fuck, _Draco._ ”

“Yes.” Nodding harder, Draco swallows and says, “And you’ve brought it up before, how they follow commands, or how they’re meant to. Inferi are raised _to_ be of service. So—”

“Who the fuck are they serving?” Harry breathes. 

Draco controls a shudder as the army of dead below start to moan, almost as if they can taste his fresh burst of fear. Eyes narrowing on Draco’s face, Harry half-reaches across the desk towards him but hesitates when Draco stares at his hand; he drops it to his side and leans back in his chair. 

“All right,” he says. “We have some time. Tell me what you've been thinking.”

* * *

_“You have my daughter on the hook, and me under your thumb,” Hermione choked out, “but what of Ron? What about my—? Is he one of them? Did you see him turn into one of those—?”_

_Narcissa’s countenance didn’t change or soften. Wasn’t blanketed with sudden compassion or any sort of grudging understanding. If anything, the regal tilt of her head and the knowing expression Hermione wanted to slice into ribbons seemed to harden. A wounded sound tore from Hermione's throat as she fled to the door._

_“Perhaps you will—”_

“Hermione? Headmistress?”

Blinking, Hermione drags her gaze from the mesmerising sway of the Inferi in the distance out the window, clawing at the ever-shrinking wards. She's a little dizzy as she turns around, and briefly wonders how long she’s been standing there; her legs have gone stiff, her shoulders, sore. But Minerva is watching her with unveiled concern, so Hermione forcibly smooths her step on her way to her desk and controls a wince when she sits down. 

“I wanted to speak to you about that,” she says at length. 

“Pardon?”

“My role as Headmistress,” Hermione clarifies.

Minerva’s footsteps against the stone floor don’t echo with the usual click of her heels as she nears Hermione’s desk. Her expression is similar to that of Hagrid’s when he approaches a magical creature he knows not to startle. Inappropriately, it brings a smile to Hermione’s face. 

“I need to step down from the majority of my duties after today.”

“You—?” Minerva says. “Why?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “I can’t say.”

Minerva lifts her face to Dumbledore’s portrait on the wall as though silenting asking him to weigh in — and, really, Hermione sympathises — but all of the portraits have gone regrettably dormant since the curse was unleashed. Every likeness reduced to nothing more than canvas and paint; all of their specialness suffocated by the magic that once breathed them to life.

Hermione sympathises with that, too.

She assumes a placid expression when Minerva lowers her head. “How are you?” Her eyes are grave, but her brogue is kind. “When was the last time you slept?”

Hermione thinks about it. The better question might be, _When did you last feel awake?_ But that’s not been asked, and she'd not be able to answer it honestly, if it had. She waves to the sofa between two of her bookshelves instead, and says, “I’ve slept. I’ve eaten, as well.” Both statements are technically true, although Hermione understands why, based on her rumpled appearance, someone might be disinclined to believe her. And, predictably enough, Minerva gives her a look as though to say Hermione’s reached the bounds of stretching credulity, so Hermione adds, “Really, I have. This isn’t a whim based on exhaustion.”

“On what, then, have you based it?”

“I’ve already said: I can’t tell you.” The objection on her former mentor’s face forces the rest out in a rush, “Please. _Please._ I have no wish to relinquish my title to someone less qualified and, now more than ever, Hogwarts needs someone at the helm.”

“I see. You’re that determined?”

“Yes.” 

In the long silence that follows, Hermione brushes her lank curls from her face, then starts picking at her ragged thumbnail to keep from biting it; she chewed it down to the cuticle days ago and, though it doesn’t hurt, she has a hazy memory of watching blood well up from the split in her skin, filling the nail bed, and streaking down to her knuckle. She looks up and meets Minerva’s thoughtful gaze.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen your children?”

Hermione digs against her nail’s edge with accidental force. Swallowing hard, she buries her blood-damp thumb in the dark material of her robes and says, “They’re spending a few days with Neville and Hannah.” 

“So Longbottom has made me aware. Yet that was not my question.”

“I saw Hugo…” Hermione mentally tallies for a moment. “Yesterday morning.”

“And Rose?” Minerva asks, frowning when Hermione flinches. She suddenly leans forward, resting light fingertips on the surface of Hermione’s desk. The compassion on her lined face is painful. “Hermione, I will of course take upon the role of acting Headmistress if you are too distressed to fulfil the duties which have been bestowed upon you—”

“I’ve been compromised,” Hermione says. “I… I'm no longer in the position to make certain decisions that might need to be made, or even to know if they are. I would tell you why, if I could, but I can’t. I _can’t_ ,” she says again, helplessly. She wants to, more than anything, but even revealing this much might put Rose in jeopardy, a suspicion which Narcissa’s Pensieve memory so cruelly validated:

_The elf standing at Hermione’s side disappears and the swirl of Rose’s face solidifies. Darling girl, and so delightfully innocent that even the vulgar shade of her hair no longer detracts from Narcissa’s appreciation of her. Rose gives her a bright smile. “A promise?”_

_“A magic one,” Narcissa says confidingly and, with an inviting smile, clasps Rose’s hand. “Can you promise, lovely Rose, that your mummy will never do anything that will harm my son or myself?”_

_“Yes!” Rose says, her eyes gone wide. “Mummy would never **ever** do anythin’ to hurt you—”_

_“Or my son Draco,” Narcissa slips in._

_“—or your son Draco, not on purpose,” she says, voice skating the line of true offense. But her earnest expression fades into one of delight as the flaming cord unravels to tie their wrists together. “I did it!”_

_The elf’s magic is a strange feeling, flowing through Narcissa and out of the borrowed wand. Expansively creative, but… distasteful. Narcissa does not regret its loss as the elf sitting on the edge of her bed slumps, then looks to her for approval. While Rose is still dazzled by the display, she takes the opportunity to murmur, “Speak of this only to whom I’ve given permission, and only when she asks. Now return to the kitchens.” To Rose, as the spell dissolves into invisibility, she says, “Wonderfully done, darling. What a talented witch you’ll grow up to—_ ”

“—but perhaps if I asked leading questions—” Minerva is saying. Hermione drags her focus where it ought to be, rattled by her slipping attention span, and shakes her head.

“No.” They’ve no time to engage in pointless ventures. Narcissa has her well and truly cornered now, and knows it. Any leeway that originally existed in the Vow is gone now that Hermione is aware of it — her hate for Narcissa makes all of her motives suspect. She doesn’t need to order Narcissa’s torture or execution; all she needs do is want it, and one wrong word, even spoken inadvertently, to someone who might piece things together and act on her behalf, could cost Rose her life. “I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” Minerva straightens her spine. She studies Hermione for too-long a measure, then carefully says, “But if Narcissa has somehow—”

“Ron is dead.” Hermione blurts the ugly words out before Minerva can go on, ashamed when she can’t use the truth as distraction without her voice quivering. She doesn't like what that might imply about her love for Rose.

Minerva blanches, but swiftly composes herself. “Hermione—”

“Narcissa told me.” The bin next to her desk is full near to overflowing; hopefully it’s that, and not Hermione herself, responsible for the strange odour she keeps catching whiffs of in her office, wet and sweet like a combination of mildew and basil. Then again, the air draughts in the castle have always been a bit of a mystery to her — sometimes during night rounds, crossflows from the greenhouses will converge upon her in the Great Hall, and potion fumes from the dungeons frequently drift their way up to Gryffindor tower. She doesn’t suppose it’s something to worry about. And certainly not now, when Minerva is still waiting.

A little steadier, Hermione says, “Her precise words were, ‘Perhaps you will find some reassurance in knowing that your Mr Weasley died with some honour. We are not all afforded such a consolation.’” Of course, she’d followed her announcement by adding, _Your daughter, however, is only put to risk — or not — by your decisions. I suggest you keep that in mind._ Hermione keeps that part to herself; she has no choice, does she? Her laugh is a breathless, unfunny thing that fades to nothing halfway through. 

“Hermione… I’m—” Minerva’s voice breaks, her fingers coming up to rest over her mouth. Her gaze glistens but she doesn’t, thankfully, ask if Hermione is sure. She says, “I’m very sorry to hear that. So very sorry.”

Hermione nods. She’s beyond tired, feels made up of static: a wife who isn’t, a mother who can’t be. Not for the first time, she wishes she could cry; she hasn’t been able to, and Ron deserves better.

The silence in the room is deafening. Hermione rubs her dry, aching eyes and says, “Thank you. And for stepping back in, as well. I’d prefer to stay busy, and involved to some degree for Harry’s sake, but… Yes. I’m sorry, we should finalise this all later, shouldn’t we? Harry will be calling soon.” 

“If you like, I can—”

“I’m okay.” Hermione glances at the clock. Straightens a few items on her desk. She pushes everything else down and inward, back to unfelt and unfeelable, lest she lose her mind. She’s wallowed quite enough, she thinks, and besides, this sort of internal shutdown gets easier each time. She nearly has it pat, has made it one of the chores she accomplishes by reflex: steep your tea, brush your teeth, sweep the shards of yourself into a box and check that the lid is shut. Standing, she says, “Harry will be expecting to hear from me. Do you know whether the Unspeakables have already headed up to the observation rooms?”

At her request, the Unspeakables have been tinkering with the spell that allows mobile reception through and, apparently, taking such a call from the middle of Healing Wing wasn't ideal. But the Astronomy Tower is perfect, and the observation rooms within it remain one of the more successful — and popular — ideas Hermione incorporated when she took over and began updating the castle and curriculum. Sectioning off the tower makes it possible to accommodate students of every age at the same time without confusion over coursework, and it only takes a small charm to Vanish the walls for the upper-years’ studies. Muggle parents, in particular, have been appreciative to learn that science lessons continue after primary school, and the younger children never fail to look like they're involved in a great adventure during class.

“Yes,” Minerva finally says. “I believe I saw them on their way shortly before I got here.”

Hermione nods. Her hair is a mess. She combs through it with her fingers, then ties it up with one of the spare hairbands in her desk as Minerva hesitates. She shakes the creases from her robes, absently missing the luxury of simple ironing charms. Not that it ultimately matters if her clothing is wrinkled — it’s not as though she has anyone to impress.

“Good.” 

They don’t speak through the maze of Hogwarts’ corridors, but Hermione can feel Minerva behind her with each step like an echo — her steadiness, her severity. She wants to say something. Hermione is glad when she doesn’t. 

All of the observation room doors are thrown open when Hermione and Minerva arrive in the tower, and they circle their way past the first three empty classrooms on the platform to room number four, where mobile reception should be clearest. Inside, three Unspeakables are hunched over unbound scrolls on a desk in the corner and three others are clumped on the balcony that overlooks the Quidditch pitch, half overrun with Inferi. But Hermione’s eyes are drawn to Narcissa, already waiting and sitting idle in one of the back-leaning chairs from which the students can study the stars. The room is bright with sunshine, and Narcissa’s eyes gleam at Hermione as she unfolds herself and stands. Her robes, Hermione notes wryly, are impeccably tailored, a gauzy white in pristine condition. Narcissa walks over, ignoring the elves that dutifully trail after her. 

“Mrs Malfoy.”

“Hermione.” She tips her head at Minerva. Smiles. “Professor McGonagall.”

“Narcissa,” Minerva says, an edge to her voice. 

Narcissa lifts an eyebrow, studying her for a beat before turning to Hermione. “I should thank you for my new rooms,” she says.

“It was my pleasure,” Hermione says, when Narcissa conspicuously doesn’t continue. “I hope you’re enjoying your company as well.” She nods her greeting to the elves. Descendents of the first elves who came to work at Hogwarts, they’ve been thoroughly vetted, and have taken their instructions — not to follow Narcissa’s orders or interact with her in any way, to accompany her everywhere, and to report everything she does, suspicious or not — with gratifying resolve. Hermione reminds herself to prepare Minvera for the daily file she’ll receive about Narcissa’s bathroom habits and adds, “Perhaps they’ll help to assuage your loneliness.” 

“They have been very attentive,” Narcissa agrees. The razored amusement visible in her eyes curdles Hermione’s stomach. “Though I’m accustomed to being more thoroughly engaged.”

Minerva is watching them too closely. Hermione clears her throat and glances at the Unspeakables on the balcony, who are now frowning and speaking in fervent whispers. She raises her voice. “Is there a problem?” 

The spell designer looks up, then murmurs something to his associates before coming over. Behind him, the others beckon to the assisting elves standing nearby. 

“What is it?”

“The wards have condensed to within less than a foot of where Potter’s call is supposed to come through,” he says without prevaricating, “and the magic guiding incoming mobile reception will draw the Inferi to it.”

“And?” Hermione asks. “It’s a tiny slip, and the wards aren’t fragile.”

“Their durability won’t matter if they can’t hold steady for the length of the call, and the spell itself will cause another small contraction; we’re using magic to create the perforation, and the Inferius absorption of magic will eat away at the area,” he says flatly. “We need more power from the elves. At least one, preferably two. With two we can probably buy you an extra minute or so.”

Hermione stares at him. “The elves have lost years from their lives simply keeping the castle going with their magic. The ones volunteering with you have given decades. Are you suggesting we kill them for a phone call?” she asks. “My coin uses less magic, and I can force my own into it. I’ll transmit the time the spell will start, and—”

“It’s the same problem,” he says. “The same weak spot the magic flows through. It shouldn’t _kill_ the elves—” this assurance is so readily given, Hermione realises it’s the only thing he believes with any certainty “—but we need more power, right now, or we can’t allow the call to come through.”

Which will be Harry’s death knell, he might as well say. Hermione’s studied the maps; though no one has been able to posit a guess as to why the Inferi are so drawn to the spot, the travel tunnels are thick with them, and the area around the entrance to the service tunnel, crowded dark. The spell will only buy Harry and Malfoy moments, but they’ll be precious ones. If Harry tries to get there without a magical assist, he’ll have no chance for survival. And neither will Malfoy.

And if she doesn’t get the chance to rescind her instructions to Harry, neither will Rose.

Hermione takes a deep breath. Narcissa stands, watchful and silent, at her side. Her jaw is locked, her gaze clear but unyielding. The Inferi on the Quidditch pitch are clawing at the invisible buffer between them and their prey. Hermione avoids Minerva’s eyes.

“Pobble,” she says, “Bean.” The elves pop into the room. She surveys them dispassionately; their heads are bowed, their ears drooping. To the Unspeakable, Hermione says, “They have plenty of power, and Hogwarts has little use for them. Ask them to volunteer.”

He blinks at her — so taken aback it brings a grim smile to Hermione’s face — before turning to the elves. “Would you voluntarily allow us to drain some of your magic to fortify the wards around Hogwarts, with no guarantee regarding how much we might need or the potential side-effects you may feel afterwards?”

Both of the elves automatically seek out Narcissa. Eyes on Hermione, one corner of Narcissa’s lips twitches, lifts, and then Narcissa dips her chin with a nod so short, Hermione might think she imagined it, if she hadn’t been watching so carefully.

“Yes,” Pobble and Bean say in unison. The Unspeakable gestures for them to follow, and the three of them return to the balcony.

“Well, well. That was masterful,” Narcissa murmurs, but the glare Hermione whips at her lands on her back as Narcissa strolls calmly back to the seat she’d been occupying. 

“It was certainly _something_ ,” Minerva says.

Hermione tenses and checks the time. “We have four or five minutes,” she announces to everyone, “so we need to clear the room of all unnecessary personnel. Please gather your things.”

The Unspeakables in the corner roll up their scrolls and stuff them into bags; one of the ones on the balcony joins them. They file out, straight-backed as any in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. Hermione blows out a breath and turns to Minerva. 

“I’ll tell you what Harry says,” she promises — a polite dismissal in lieu of apology. Minerva nods but makes no move to leave, gaze intent on her face. Hermione grimaces. Escorts her to the door. She lowers her voice. “They’re… spies. They admitted it when I confronted one of them; they’ve been working in our kitchens since the year before Draco came to Hogwarts. Malfoy elves, serving Malfoy purposes.”

“So was Dobby, if I recall correctly,” Minerva says. “Until he wasn’t.” The look she sweeps at Hermione is so filled with disappointment, Hermione has to control the urge to flinch and to drop her eyes. To excuse herself for doing what she has to: _Dobby was different, and I can’t think of him right now, regardless._

“I haven’t forgotten,” she says instead. 

“I was sure you hadn’t, until just now,” Minerva says. She steps away, but pauses across the threshold and turns back. “I’ve never heard you speak about an elf in that fashion before. I don’t wish for you to lose yourself.”

And Hermione knows what she's supposed to say — Minerva words are a search for reassurance, for caution; she only wants to be sure Hermione is still the girl her professor half-raised, that she knows what she’s doing. But some truths are too dangerous to impart, and the rest of them… are no longer true. 

“Ron is dead," Hermione says. 

It isn't the response Minerva wanted, that much is clear, yet it's the most honest one Hermione can give. She's never thought herself the sort of woman whose identity was dependent upon her partner but, for now at least, she's got to reconstruct herself from the ground, up. 

Hermione meets Minerva's widening eyes, and quietly closes the door.

* * *

They lapse into silence when the hour approaches, and Harry breaks into their food stores. Moving over to Draco’s side of the desk, he takes one protein bar for himself and offers two to Draco, but Draco shakes his head at the second. Since they’ve begun navigating through cities once more, the opportunity to replenish their supplies has been practically nil, and his nervous stomach makes it impossible for him to justify the excess. Harry gives him the sort of look that indicates he’s debating whether he should force the issue, but finally shrugs and puts the extra bar away. They eat and, passing a bottle of water back and forth, Harry fusses with the list.

“This will help,” Harry says. He glances at his watch, the clock, to the window, then back at the list. He can’t seem to sit still, his energy accumulating by the minute. Whether he’s been filled with adrenaline by their discussion or just obnoxiously excited to talk to his friends again, it’s starting to exhaust Draco just to look at him. 

“I jotted them down in descending order of importance,” Draco says. Stupid though it may be, he finds having a tangible outline oddly soothing. Besides which, Weasley is, by all of Harry's accounts, a solid strategist; that nauseating _Brightest Witch of Her Age_ nickname for Granger is probably not without merit; Draco’s position as an Unspeakable, despite his past, is a testament to what he can offer; and Harry is, of course, Harry. If they can all stomach working together, there must be something they can accomplish. Draco’s only real concern is his mother. He loves her, perhaps too much, but he also knows her far too well and now that his relief over her status among the living is no longer colouring his perspective, he’s able to consider her impartially. Whether she’s been brought to Hogwarts to force his cooperation, or the reverse, Draco’s never not known her to have some sort of agenda, and she’s had more than enough time these last weeks to form one. He can only hope it's not something that runs counter to theirs. “My mother might be a problem.”

Harry looks surprised. “Ron got her to Hogwarts for a reason.” 

“Yes, but _what?_ ” Not ready to delve too deeply into it, Draco waves off Harry’s thoughtful frown. “Nevermind. I’ll speak to her." He taps on the parchment. "Our priorities should be finding out if Granger and Weasley’s research extends to a theory about who and why, and make sure they’re aware of our suspicions about the— the pureblood aspect. How quickly the curse kills Muggles and Muggle-borns, and how much that might have to do with the curse. Who would most benefit from that.” 

Shame flickers through Draco, hot and familiar, and he resists the temptation to tug at the cuff of his sleeve. Addressing such topics will probably never come easily to him, and he feels more naked discussing it now than he ever did in the hushed confines of the tent with Harry, but he refuses to minimise the things he’s done by shying away from the subject. He catches Harry eyeing him; there’s no forgiveness in his expression, but it’s filled with an awkward sort of compassion. An understanding for the depth of Draco’s discomfort. 

The tension in Draco’s shoulders dissipates a little. He can’t begin to quantify what it means to him that Harry is willing to take his measure in such a manner — Harry of all people, who has fewer reasons than most. For all the complexity of his patchworked soul, the goodness lining his magic is practically palpable; Draco, however, exists on the opposite end of the spectrum, bred with a pedigree of darkness down to his bones and spent two-thirds of his life making all the wrong choices with the privileges he’d been afforded. Whatever steps he's taken, or takes, towards his own redemption will never be enough. They both know it, and yet Harry’s gaze doesn’t waver from Draco’s face.

"You said there's been two Pureblood Supremacist uprisings in your time with the Aurors?" Draco prompts after a few seconds. 

“Yeah. No," Harry tilts his head, "three. Ron took lead in the undercover investigations, because each group tested for blood purity. I’m pretty sure everyone involved in each of the cases is still serving out their sentences, but he might remember something about their contacts or, I don't know, mission statements, that could be useful." His brow tightens, eyes going unfocused. "Something that might give us some sort of clue. He’s also— do Unspeakables have to pick a specialised area of study during training?”

Draco shifts, unsure what his qualifications have to do with anything, but as he opens his mouth to respond, it occurs to him that Harry is still considering the blank expanse of the wall. “Yes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Aurors do, too,” Harry says, looking back to him. “I studied Offensive Wandless Applications—” 

“Offensive?” Draco’s eyebrows lift of their own volition.

“I knew less about it than Defence,” Harry says, a small smile flitting across his face. He puts his feet up and tips back in his chair, propping the toe of one boot on the edge of the desk to keep his balance, and letting the crooked knee of his other leg fall open. He looks good like that, rangy and lean, muscles visible but relaxed under the tight fit of his t-shirt, denim-clad legs long and half-splayed. So good, as a matter of fact, it takes Draco a moment to realise Harry hasn’t continued. He glances up to find Harry watching him, a dull-burn flush slipping hot over his cheekbones as his pupils slowly dilate. 

Draco clears his throat and checks out the window. “You were saying?”

“Right. Er.” Harry comes down in his chair again with a soft thump against the carpet. “Anyway, Ron picked Tactical Response to Death Magics as his academic and practical focus, I think because of Fred—” he adds, and he’s unburdened enough of his grief to Draco on the subject that Draco remains quiet when his smile fades, but then Harry shakes his head and looks back to him, “—and I think he’ll have some good ideas where to look for a broader picture of what's happening. He’s brilliant.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Draco says dryly, but if Harry realises he’s being indulged, he’s unoffended. “We probably won’t have time to relay all of that.”

“It’s probably for the best. Too many questions and Ron’ll be as likely to kill me as answer me,” he says, cheerful again under a badly-hidden grin. He removes his glasses and looks at Draco as he cleans them on the hem of his t-shirt. Replacing them — crookedly — he says, “I’ve had to curtail the habit of Firecalling him every time I wanted his opinion on case theory; he started instituting fines for excessive questions a few years ago.”

Draco snorts and notes the way Harry’s eyes stray again to his watch. “Is it time?”

“Almost.” He places the mobile on the desk and sets it to spinning with a hard tap to its side, fishing out beads from his bag one-handed.

“Good. Problematic as she may be, I’ll feel better once I’m able to make sure my mother is still alive.”

The spinning mobile comes to an abrupt stop, caught under the firm trap from Harry’s index finger. Draco winces; there are probably thousands of ways he could have delivered that differently. Staring at the mobile, Harry's jaw flexes, his lips pressed white. 

“They wouldn’t,” Harry says, low. “And— And if they would— Draco, I wouldn’t let them.”

Harry’s gaze, vivid and sure, lifts to his. Draco’s heart shudders to a momentary halt. He doesn’t know how to interpret a look so full of understanding so closely following the last, and it occurs to him to wonder whether he’s been the one waiting for Harry’s answers to _his_ unasked questions, whether _Harry_ is the one keeping him at arm’s length anymore, rather than the other way around. 

Rooted in place, Draco watches Harry tip the beads into his mouth. His throat works in a hard swallow, one Draco copies as his heart resumes beating. Then, slow and deliberate, as if trying to make some sort of statement, Harry takes hold of his wand and uses it to press a button on the mobile. He doesn’t pick it up, but taps another button after a few seconds, filling the room with a soft, static-echoed ringtone. Halfway through the second, the ringing cuts off.

“—lo? Harry?” It’s Granger. 

The intensity in Harry’s eyes refocuses on the call, and Draco forces himself to pay attention. Harry says, “Hermione. I’m here. We’re here. We can go whenever you’re ready. Are you all still okay? God, we have so much to—”

“Wait, wait.” Granger sounds harried. “I need you to write this down in case the call gets interrupted, are you ready?”

“Right, yeah.” Harry takes the pen Draco shoves at him. “Go ahead.” 

“The spell is a modified Protego; it’ll find your magic from wherever you're positioned and bounce off you to make a path to the doors. It’s all set up, but it will take us several hours for the final preparations and I don’t want you going at night, so we’ll be casting twenty-three hours from right,” she pauses, as though she knows Harry’s checking his watch, “ _now._ Have you got that?”

Harry, writing, nods before giving verbal affirmation. “Yeah.”

“You’ll have sixty seconds,” Granger says, words spilling fast and tight, “if everything works as it should. You’ll have to hurry, so get as close as you can beforehand and then _run_ , you’ll have to run, Harry, and we won’t be able to call again, and it shouldn’t take more than two days to cross the tunnel but we’ve allotted for three so you can sleep and tend to— to any injuries, that’s seventy-two hours exactly from the start of the spell, and then the spell will rebound at the exit of the tunnel in Folkestone, and it won’t last nearly as long, perhaps thirty seconds, forty if we’re lucky, but unlike the start of the spell the magic won’t be seeking you out so I won’t have any way of knowing if—" Breathless, she paused to inhale. Slows her words a touch. "Just, find a safe spot on the other side to use the coin and let me know you got through, I’ll work out how to… And— and, Harry, about Malfoy… Is he near you, can he hear me?”

Without thinking, Draco adopts a defensive posture, but the look Harry tilts him is steady as his voice. He says, “Yes. You’re on speaker.” In Granger’s silence, Draco expects Harry to pick up the mobile and put it to his ear, but Harry’s hands don’t move, and Draco's stomach flips when Harry instead clears his throat and says, “Is his mum with you?”

“She's…” Granger makes a soft, thick sound that drags Draco’s attention back to the mobile. Then her tone flattens out. “Yes she is. Are you okay, then, Malfoy?”

Confused, Draco exchanges a look with Harry and sees his own surprise mirrored back at him. Granger’s tone is devoid of the cool superiority from their last call. “I’m fine,” he says cautiously. 

“Good. Good.” Granger exhales. “Just stay with him, he’ll keep you safe. Harry, when I said— What I said last time wasn’t— I shouldn’t have—”

“No, I— I know,” Harry says, an eager note to his voice. He beams a smile at the mobile, then directs it towards Draco for long enough that Draco's mouth runs dry. “I know. Don’t worry, I’d already decided— I was going to tell you— Yeah. I’ve got it.”

“Good,” Granger says again. “Yes. Make sure nothing happens to him.” 

Flustered and still trying to figure out the implications of what Harry's just done, it takes Draco a moment to realise how much it sounds like Granger means what she says, which… doesn't seem right. It definitely can't be good. He doesn’t like her and might not be put out hearing some of the wind taken from her sails, but the knowledge that his mother is the only one with both access and direct motive to do it makes him reassess. Even Granger probably doesn’t deserve her methods. 

“All right," Granger says. "Malfoy, your mother would like to—”

“Wait,” Harry says. “We have a few things to tell you, too, and— Can you put me on speaker?”

“I— Yes, one moment.” The static increases briefly, disappears. “Still there?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Ron? Can you hear me? How long do we have?”

This pause is longer; Granger resolves it with a hiccuped breath. “Um, he’s—” She stops. Continues. “We don’t have much longer, and Malfoy should get to speak to... The— the call, Ron’s— helping with spellwork. He can’t talk, but he— he can hear, so…” She trails off. 

Draco’s stomach plummets. Then his mother's voice comes smoothly across the line, and his blood runs cold. “Darling? I trust you’re quite well?”

Harry is blinking, a befuddled little smile curving his lips. Draco eyes him warily, and says, “I am, Mother, yes. Granger?”

“Y-yes?”

There’s a tug in Draco’s midsection, a wrench of fear that doesn’t belong to him. He's sought out the delicate thread linking their magic a few times since Harry rediscovered it, prodding at it curiously while Harry sleeps, before remembering how much it drained from him to Heal Harry’s wounds — how much it _hurt_ — and getting too nervous to investigate it further. But suddenly everything feels carved wide open inside Draco, and the link is no longer a single, focused thread but thousands, an intricate braiding of cordage wrapping them tight as a handfast. A doorway, built from the raw nerves hidden in fibrous tissues, connecting things deeper than muscle and bone. 

Oh, God. 

Draco latches his gaze to the mobile and says, "Harry and I have reason to believe blood purity plays a factor somehow. You might want to research that if you haven't been already.”

“Oh. Yes. That’s— Yes,” Granger says. “All right, thank you.”

“Have you given any thought to who Summoned the Inferi, or for what purpose?”

“Draco,” Narcissa says, “where are the two of you? Mr Potter mentioned you were close to the tunnel?”

The frivolity of the question disconcerts Draco as much as her interruption does; his mother never interrupts without cause — namely, to distract — but she’s usually better prepared. “One moment, Mother. Granger, have you?”

“We… No.” Granger’s breath hitches with a tiny, disbelieving gasp. “Oh, Merlin. _No._ We’ve primarily been focusing our research on Necromancy spells that would have this sort of range and how to neutralise them, but most of the information about them are kept in the warded DMLE library and of course there's no way to retrieve anything from them. Only two of the Unspeakables who made it here did much time studying Death, and their studies were more generalised, so having no one familiar with how to counteract these sort of spells has been slowing us down,” she says, and Draco closes his eyes, hoping Harry didn’t hear it, “but we have been—”

The spasm of pain in his chest increases, and Draco unsuccessfully tries to swallow the sound that breaks from his throat. Panting, he opens his eyes to discover Harry’s trembling hands have moved into his line of sight, hovering around the mobile. 

“But— Ron. Ron did,” Harry says. “Remember, Hermione? And we had some cases with Pureblood Supremacists, there might be something there, a person, a family, Ron, d’you— Ron? Ron?”

“Harry.” Granger’s voice wobbles dangerously over his name. Her breath comes raggedly across the line. “He— He’s busy, like I said, and,” she forces a laugh, “I’m sure you can’t possibly remember everything _you_ studied in training, no one does.”

“Of course not,” Narcissa says, coming to Granger’s aid. “Please, let's spend what time we have left discussing things from a decade ago that only the truly obsessive might recall.” Her tone is so thoroughly disinterested, Draco snaps rigidly upright, his fragmented attention narrowing. “Now, then, Draco—”

“Mother,” Draco says without inflection. It’s revolting. Impossible. But he hasn’t heard her use that tone in years, and the last time was in response to Bellatrix's needling implications that she was considering taking Draco to her rooms to toy with him in private, that final, wandless night he spent at home in seventh year: _Bella, darling, you'll do as you please, but I beg you not to forget the new batch of Muggles in the cellars for too long this time. I can still smell the stink of the last ones all the way in the parlour._ He braces himself against the unwieldy force of what Harry’s feeling, and pushes the words out. “What, precisely, happened to Father?”

She doesn't reply. Across from him, Harry takes a few strangled pulls of air.

“Why did you bring her to Hogwarts, Ron?” Harry chokes out. He fists his hands in the air, presses his knuckles tight against the desk. “Why am I bringing Draco? Ron?”

“ _Harry_ ,” Granger says. “The call, we need to disconnect, we don’t have much—”

Scattered, bewildered agony rips into Draco as Harry pushes violently to his feet, his chair tipping to the ground behind him. He grabs the mobile and holds it up to his mouth. “ _Ron_ ,” he barks, “ _answer me!_ Hermione, where _is_ he!”

“He’s, he can’t, he’s fine, _stop_ it,” Granger half-sobs, her pitch bordering on hysterical, “he just can’t _talk_ , that’s all, you can’t— Harry, please, you’ve got to protect Malfoy and come home, please, _please_ , don’t let anything ha—” The stifled sound of elves shrieking in the background covers up the rest of what she says. The call goes dead.

Draco struggles to breathe in the cut of silence. The misery pulsing through Harry hits him in uneven intervals, and then suddenly consolidates, centred like a blade in his stomach. Draco takes it without comment in hopes that sharing might alleviate some of Harry’s pain, even fully aware it doesn’t work that way; the well of grief never runs dry, no matter how many people drink from it. He prises his gaze from the surface of the desk and, for a single, heart-stopping moment, sees Pansy’s face, white and covered in blood, transposed over Harry’s features. And then Harry is Harry again, inside and apart from himself at the same time, and the walls are groaning a protest, the windows are rattling like they want to shatter from their frames, and the Inferi have begun screaming with hunger. Magic floods Draco, so explosively powerful, it makes what he felt from Harry weeks ago at the lake seem like a wandless child's _Lumos_.

Alarmed, Draco jerks to his feet. “Harry. Harry, stop.” The room is spinning around him, but he ventures forward a step and, when he doesn't fall, tentatively reaches out. Rests his hand on Harry’s arm. “You’ve got to stop or they’ll feel it,” Draco murmurs. Harry twitches, jaw set, and shakes his head. Draco glances at the window, where the wails of the Inferi are growing louder. The floor of the room shakes. With a hard gulp of air, Draco says, "Please. They’ll kill us." 

For some reason, that seems to register. Harry blinks again and pins Draco with a stare. The walls and floor stop creaking as though on the verge of flying apart. The windows take a few seconds longer; the screech of Inferi, at length, slowly begins to subside. 

The new quiet in the room feels ominous. Draco licks his lips. “Harry?”

Harry cracks a brutal laugh. He turns and winds his arm back. Releases it. The mobile crashes against the wall with a spray of plastic splinters and Harry whips back around and cuffs hard fingers around Draco's wrists. Unprepared and stiff with shock, Draco stumbles as Harry drives him backwards, gives a grunt of protest when his hips bang into the edge of the desk and Harry presses tight against him. His breath is hot on Draco’s face and his eyes are glittering with terrifying menace, but the overwhelming throb of pain he’s broadcasting tells a different story.

Draco doesn't let himself think twice. Gently twisting a wrist free from Harry’s grip, he slides his hand up Harry's shoulder, over the nape of his neck, and sinks his fingers into Harry’s hair. He scoots up and back until he’s half-sat on the surface of the desk. Spreads his legs to pull Harry between. Harry’s brow knits; Draco strokes his thumb along the delicate outside curl of Harry’s ear. 

“Use me,” he says. He hesitates only a moment, heart thundering, before pressing a soft kiss to Harry's unresponsive mouth; pulling back, he tries to push whatever warmth exists in him to Harry through the blown-open link. “Use me. However you need.”

Harry shudders; his gaze drops to Draco’s lips. Draco tilts his head, unaroused yet more than willing, mind wiped so clean of petty concerns like doubt and pride, he doesn't know how he held onto them for so long. Draco relaxes. Makes himself pliant. Harry's free hand slides to his hip, clenches there once, tight and reflexive, his eyes still on Draco's mouth, and then Harry tears himself away. 

“ _No._ He stands in the middle of the room for a moment, confusion on his face, his chest heaving. He shakes his head. His voice is raw with unshed tears. The link, chaotic with emotion, closes so hard Draco practically hears it slam. Untangled from it, Draco shudders, gripping the edge of the desk, as the sensations of his own body blare hot without Harry's feelings in the way to buffer them: the bruising ache around his wrists, the strain in his jaw, the flutter of distress in his stomach at seeing Harry so lost. Harry's throat works. “No, I—”

Draco eases off the desk. Some instinct has him backing him into the corner. He watches helplessly as Harry glares at the ground, then suddenly rips a metal drawer from the tall filing cabinet and throws it against the loo door. Harry shoves the cabinet onto its side, then attacks the one standing next to it, and anything else in his reach — he sweeps the desk of its electronics; he sends folders flying; he systematically decimates the office piece by piece until everything is shambles around him. And when the Inferi below are howling once more and there’s nothing left to destroy, Harry snarls with animalistic frustration and turns to slam his fist into the wall with cracking force, again and again and again, plaster dust fogging the air between them, and all Draco can do is… wait. By the time Harry wilts, what's left of the section of wall he's been pummeling is smeared bloody, and the Inferi below sound like they're rioting. Harry slumps, shoulders heaving. Draco unlocks his muscles and walks through the evidence of Harry’s devastation, careful not to trip. 

“Are you finished?” he asks. Forehead pressed to the wall, Harry nods. 

“He's fine,” Harry says. “He's got to be.”

“Alright.”

A beat passes. Harry says, "We don't know what happened." 

"That's true."

"But you think he's gone."

Draco does; the panic and pain in Granger's voice touched him on a visceral level. "Not necessarily," he says.

“I won't believe it." 

"Alright," Draco says again. 

Harry rolls his forehead against the wall. "I've got to—” He stops, his eyes fluttering shut. He blows out a breath, straightens, and opens his eyes. “I've got to go.”

Draco swallows, nods. “Where?”

The question seems to perplex Harry for a moment, and then he gestures: _Up._ Draco nods once more, wordlessly, and stays him with a gentle touch. He wades through the wreckage to retrieve Harry’s machete from under a pile of papers and electronic cords. Handing it over, he says, “Take this with you.”

“I just need—”

“Go,” Draco says. The thought of Harry being alone right now hurts him down to his core. Radiates a different sort of grief through all of his extremities. Distantly, Draco considers what an awful way it is to realise you've fallen in love. Harry hesitates, and Draco says, “I’ll be fine. I’ll be here.”

Harry flicks him a glance. He goes to the window and cranks it open by the lever; he twists for another look at Draco before climbing out — and then he's gone.


	12. Song of Solomon 2:17; 8:6-7

The year they all turned twenty, Harry and Hermione got trapped under the mistletoe Molly had innocently let George bring for Christmas. 

"It's got to be a proper kiss, mind," George called out when they realised they were stuck, and laughed when Molly huffed and swatted him. Tipsy from the Firewhiskey crumble cake and gleeful about his joke, he didn't seem to notice that everyone else went still for a moment before joining in, as was standard back in those days.

Then Hermione cleared her throat. Rosy-cheeked, she looked up at Harry, squared her shoulders, and said, "Well?" 

Everyone had, by then, entered into the same unspoken pact: If George is smiling, play along. But Harry couldn't stop himself from glancing at Ron.

"What're you waiting for?" Ron said. "I'd like to get my bride," he pointedly elbowed George in the stomach, lips quirking at George's guffaw, "home before New Year's." 

"She just ate a lot of the onion tartlets, is all," Harry said, taking Hermione by the shoulders when she snorted and rolled her eyes. "Got to prepare myself a bit, don't I?" 

Hermione's mouth was soft when Harry kissed her. Her lips parted sweetly under his, her small hands resting light against his chest, and she didn't, in fact, taste like onion, but like the treacle fudge they'd gorged themselves on after supper. She was a good kisser. Harry had wondered — a lot when they were thirteen and she'd begun developing, and perhaps a few times since — whether she would be, so it was a pleasant discovery. But that's all it was: pleasant, and a little weird that they couldn’t unlock until George’s charm allowed. 

"Honestly, George," Ginny said in the background, "what if Mum had got trapped under there with Bill? Or _you_?" 

Sometime around that point, the mistletoe magic decided it was a ‘proper’ kiss, and Harry and Hermione broke apart, laughing along with everyone else. Ron was grinning at Ginny, barely paying any attention to his wife and his best mate snogging a few steps away; he looked over, his grin taking on a diabolical slant, and Harry's heart filled with so much affection for him, he had to hold onto Hermione for another second before he was sure he could stay upright. 

A soft metallic clang comes from the fire escape behind him. Harry sighs. 

"Ron's the first person I remember loving," he says. "The first one I remember ever loving me." 

Draco hesitates. "Sorry," he says. "I was just… I thought you'd probably be thirsty. I brought water." 

Probably wanted to make sure he hadn't got himself killed, too. Harry doesn't begrudge him that, not after this morning.

"Yeah." 

The thin layer of gravel covering the rooftop crunches under Draco's footfalls. He hesitates again when he reaches Harry, but at last lowers down to sit beside him. Harry takes a conservative sip from the bottle of water he offers, mostly to show his appreciation for the gesture, and then drinks deeply when it makes him realise how parched his throat has grown. He sets the empty bottle in front of them. 

They're far enough from the ledge that the Inferi around the building are relegated to nothing more than the occasional, eerie moan and a slithering shuffle of bodies, unless Harry looks towards the coast where their numbers are greater. He doesn’t. Straight ahead, the setting sun inks runny orange and red swirls along the horizon. Above it, purple-blotched clouds move East, pushed by a tidal wind. 

"I'm sure that's not true," Draco says after a while. "In fact, I know it's not. Even if your continued existence wasn't a testament to it, I've seen at least five biographies on the market about you that go into unnecessary detail about how much your parents loved you. One of them even has _Authorised_ in the title. It's incredibly overpriced, by the way." 

"One hundred percent of its proceeds go to various approved charities," Harry says with a sidelong smile. Much as he needed to be by himself, he’s glad for Draco’s presence now. For his sharp tongue, and his willingness to use it. The last thing Harry wants to navigate is sympathy. "No, I mean— My mum, my dad… I was a baby. What few memories I've got are... fragmented. Impressions, mostly, and maybe half-imagined, based on what other people have told me." 

"Ah."

"Ron, though. There's nothing about him I'm not sure is true," Harry says, voice thick. He clears his head with a small shake before the darkness can creep back in. He’s always known better than to try, but after having abandoned Draco earlier, spending a few more minutes pretending the world hasn’t gone to Hell will hardly be his most unforgivable transgression of the day. Turning his mind back to the mistletoe, Harry laughs softly, mostly to himself. He says, “He kissed me once,” and is gratified when Draco reacts with a rather obvious double-take before he manages to shutter his expression. 

"There were always…" Draco takes a deep breath, then continues in the determined tone of a man who's been ordered to brave his way through a minefield, "...rumours, I suppose, about…" 

Harry leaves him twisting in his discomfort until it looks like he’s going to try to say something else, then steps in with a rescue and explains about that holiday supper.

“And Granger, as well,” Draco mutters. “How accurate, exactly, _are_ those rumours about you?”

Harry nudges him with his shoulder. “Pretty accurate, just not the parts including them.”

“I hope I’ll get a story about that later, too,” Draco says, lifting an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Harry says, but he’s smiling, and so is Draco — one of those subtle smiles he wears sometimes, tiny enough to be mistaken for a smirk. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I may perish with anticipation.”

“So, Ron was mostly watching George, not paying attention to us,” Harry says. Draco’s forehead knits for the beat it takes him to recall what Harry’s told him about the Forest of Dean, smooths, and Harry nods. “Yeah. But then he looked over, and to George joking around, and back, and he got this smile… He laughed and called George a git, and made a fuss about marching over to help Hermione on with her cloak because it was _cold,_ , and he was _tired_ , could they _please_ get on with it. And I don’t know if Hermione could see what he was thinking — they’re like that sometimes, way more than most people would guess — or if she really did drop her gloves, but either way, the result was Ron stuck with me under the mistletoe. And George… I thought he’d have an embolism, he was laughing so hard, and Bill and Charlie too, and Ginny and Fleur were hooting, and Percy was coughing mulled wine all over his shirt…” 

Harry closes his eyes, replaying it on a loop, the moment he understood what Ron was about, all of that joy spread out around him like the fulfillment of a wish he’d made as a child: having people to make laugh, and to laugh with. Feeling like things might really be okay.

Opening his eyes, he says, “Ron pulled a face at all of them, making noises about how stupid it was, and then he grabbed me and sort of,” he makes an illustrative motion with his arms, “dipped me like we were dancing, and kissed me.”

There’s a picture of it in one of Molly’s albums, courtesy of the floating _Memorable Moments_ Wizarding Camera Fleur had given her for Christmas that year — Harry holding onto Ron’s shoulders for dear life as he’s dipped and kissed, Ron, red-cheeked and bowed over him, Hermione visible just beyond them, her head tipping back with laughter. Harry’s been tempted to ask for a copy to frame, on more than one occasion.

Draco’s arch tone cuts through his reverie. “If this ends with ‘And that’s how I realised I was attracted to men…’ it might officially become the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it was never like that between us. But—” Harry shrugs. He’s not sure where to go from there, why it matters that it was the first moment he’d felt wholly happy in years. His racing heart — so little of it had to do with the physicality of attraction, or even the kiss itself, but was a part of something deeper, and closer to the reason he took his wand from his throat when he heard Ron in the hall on that long, dark night after the Battle. It had something to do with how he’s always worn his survival instincts so close to the surface, and why he’s honed them so well; something to do with what he used to forge them in the first place, and finding a reason to, on a Christmas morning nine years before that night. “But it was different than with Hermione. Ron’s my… Before him, I was—” He makes the effort to get the word out. “— _alone_ , so alone that not having anyone felt like a friend. Ron changed that. He’s the first one I remember loving me.”

Harry stares out, chills skittering down his arms. Twilight has cooled the colours of the sky, and the air along with them. He should send Draco back inside where it’s safer; he considers claiming the need for space again, though the little he’s had has only left him adrift, but then Draco makes a thoughtful sound — and slides his hand into Harry’s. 

Diverted from the horizon, Harry watches their fingers twine together. In a bid to forget the feel of them working him over, Harry hasn’t let himself look at Draco's hands much lately, but the look of them is remarkably familiar, all creamy skin and long, slightly knobby fingers. They're hands that are absurdly suited to their owner: fine-boned but deceptively strong, toughened spots hidden on the inside of his grip. Harry’s hand doesn’t look quite right with it in comparison, tanned despite the near-constant covering of his glove, his knuckles still swollen and torn bloody. But despite the visual contrast, Draco’s calluses are rubbing against the few soft, sensitive spots on Harry’s palm, and vice versa, and the clasp... _feels_ nice. Feels like a good fit.

“I meant what I told you this morning,” Draco says. His patrician angles don’t lend nearly as well to kindness as they do to scorn, but his eyes are serious, and the downward curve of his mouth looks gentle. “It’s alright not to presume the worst. Probably better that you don't.”

Harry swallows. “I don’t know how to imagine it.” The tenuous warmth he’s been holding onto bleeds away, and he mutters, “I don’t know how not to.” He’s tortured himself with a thousand different scenarios to justify Hermione’s weak excuses, the guttering pain in her voice — but they all ring empty. “Hermione, she—”

“Granger’s been keeping something from you,” Draco says. “Obviously. But I’ve been thinking about it, and Weasley’s the one who brought my mother to Hogwarts, right?” He waits for Harry to nod, then says, pointedly, “ _How?_ ”

“Floo, probably, or… Oh. He’d have to have been with her.” Uncertain, Harry thinks that over. There are a multiple spells capable of transferring someone else from one location to another, and Aurors are trained in half a dozen of them. Every single one Harry knows requires a lot of magic in the atmosphere.

“Weasley’s probably got himself hurt, and isn’t able to get to the location where they take the calls,” Draco says with a negligent shrug that gives credence to his newfound lack of concern. “Granger wouldn’t have wanted to distract you while you’ve been at such risk. A pretty shit thing to do, deciding how to protect someone without taking their opinions into account,” he adds, pointed again. “Isn’t it?”

Harry searches his face. Draco meets his gaze without hesitation — calm and mild, with a hint of _Think, you idiot_ thrown in for effect — and it’s all there: everything Harry needs to reel himself back from the brink of his grim conclusions. Except... he can’t tell if Draco actually believes what he’s saying. 

Not from just looking at him. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry closes his eyes and turns inward, hunting for the lightning-hot filament that he’d clung to earlier. 

“ _Don’t,_ ” Draco says, and Harry opens his eyes to see him rearing back. In the span of a few seconds, he’s gone chalky with distress. Draco stares at him with a small, shaky exhale, and then offers Harry a view of his profile. Unsteadily, he says, “It was… a lot. This morning, and, and before. When I—” Still gazing out at the rapidly darkening sky, he makes a blind, all-encompassing gesture towards Harry’s torso with his free hand, then brings it up and grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about that too, why there’s a link. It must have happened when I lent you my magic, back at the hotel. We’re all, Unspeakables, I mean, we’re all tasked with learning how in the beginning, but it’s never been one of the exercises that I enjoyed, or in which I really excelled; my Occlumency shields are too deeply rooted now. Besides, lending magic can be so…” 

“Hot,” Harry supplies, considering that first time. Draco casts an irritated look his way that suggests Harry’s incredibly stupid for saying so out loud, and Harry shrugs. “Sorry, but. That’s why? That sort of intimacy, when you’ve got automatic shields in place? ”

“Possibly, to some degree. It is... intimate,” Draco says at length, hedging. “But mostly because it wasn’t ever…” His Adam’s apple bobs, and the lines around his pursed frown deepen. “It’s never been like that, before; it’s... an uncomfortable exercise. We only train to become proficient because knowing how to do it with another person makes it easier to identify the specific balance, that elemental give-and-take, required when performing more complex magics. Once I could do that without thinking, I stopped practicing that particular spell. In the interim, I must’ve forgotten something, or I was too distracted; whatever the case it’s my fault we’re still linked.”

“And it hurt you.” Harry’s voice comes out flat as he works it out. “I’ve been hurting you.” Feeling a bit sick, he thinks about the euphoric sweep of Draco’s magic reaching for him in the forest, how cool it was against the blistering heat of his pain in the stable. He thinks about that morning, when it felt like a portal flung wide open, and what he could sense from the other side of it, the only safe thing to grab onto. He thinks of what he was about to do and tries to draw his hand away. Draco doesn’t let him. 

“We’ve got hundreds of Inferi crowding around this building, and thousands of them to get through in the morning,” he says, ostensibly to himself. “Don’t throw him off the roof.”

“Draco.”

“Well, you don’t _listen,_ Potter. It’s—” Draco seems to lose steam there, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “It was different with you, okay? I didn’t loathe it, there was none of the friction I’d come to expect. With few exceptions, it’s mostly been, well. As you mentioned.” Irritated, he adds, “Which is probably why I bollocksed up the spell.”

Harry breathes that in. Observes Draco’s agitation, his small, wordless squirm. Something settles inside him, curling peaceful around the knowledge of his own, frightening capacity for violence. “Then why don’t you want me to see?”

“It’s too much,” Draco says again. “It’s overwhelming, and can be draining, and I’m not— I don’t know. I— can’t, right now. Like that.” His voice goes abruptly clipped. “And we _shouldn’t,_ not here. If you want to know if I’m lying, ask me.”

There are more qualifications in Draco’s rejection than there is rejection itself, and Harry lets himself linger over them for a moment, not sure if he’s ready for the consequences of Draco’s opinion. He chews on his lip and sighs. He tips his head back to see that the sky’s gone shockingly clear; without clouds or electricity, the brilliant swirl of the Milky Way spreads out like a road above him, one close enough to travel on. It seems like something Harry should have noticed before now, but then — he's changed, hasn't he. He's fundamentally different from the man who was able to set himself so rigidly apart when his team started dropping like flies around him. That man never once had to think the most important person in his life could be gone, not really.

Draco’s hand feels like an anchor. Harry says, “Do you think Ron is dead?”

“I don’t know.” Draco exhales. There’s a heaviness to the sound of his honesty that didn’t exist in the bland explanation he tried to offer. “Granger didn’t say, so we can’t, can we? My theory could stand. It really could. We— We could hold onto that.” 

Harry nods. He’s got more experience than he should, absorbing a hit he’s jumped in front of, and it’s automatic at this point to take stock of the damage: _Potentially Lethal; Pain Level Ten, already fading; Nervous System Intact. No Blood loss, but seek assistance as soon as possible._ It’s the same conclusion Harry keeps coming to — they just won’t know, not until he and Draco get to Hogwarts — but hearing Draco say it helps to reframe things, a little: He can carry the burden of truth until it crushes him, or let Draco shoulder half the weight of unconvincing hope. Harry can’t tell which is heavier, but one option, at least, gives him the chance to keep Draco safe for as long as he can. In the end, it’s not even a choice. 

Harry nods again, slow, deliberate. _Okay, then,_ he thinks, and allows it to be. _Okay._

“I don’t blame Hermione,” he says, moving on. He actually does a little, but it seems disloyal to say so because he knows he’ll get over it; Harry understands her reasoning too well and loves her too much to hold onto his anger for very long. “It’s probably what I would have done, too.”

“Yeah.” 

“I just hope he knows—” Harry stops. “I can’t remember really telling him that he matters to me, let alone how much.”

Draco huffs a laugh. “If I could see it from a distance ten years ago, even Weasley can’t have missed it.”

He says it matter-of-factly, with the sort of confidence that’s impossible to argue against, and strokes his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. In the cold November air, the warm ghost of his touch lights up Harry’s nerves, and gives him an excuse to recall how Draco had looked on the desk. How tight his fingers had been in Harry’s hair as he’d drawn Harry closer. Smaller demonstrations of generosity have brought better men to their knees. Harry had wanted to go to his, too, and would have, but... hadn’t been able. Too crippled to figure out why at the time, he sought the only catharsis he could that felt like it wouldn’t cause lasting damage. In retrospect Harry thinks it might have had something to do with the balance Draco spoke of, for complex magics. For complex anythings capable of changing you. Everything that works requires a give-and-take, or the system warps and eventually breaks apart.

“Thanks,” Harry says, and shudders out a breath when he feels the hesitant flutter of something reminiscent of, _You’re welcome_ along the thread that connects them. 

Draco clears his throat. “We should go inside,” he says. “Clean off your hand.” He nods towards the ledge of the building. “I think some of the dormant ones have woken up, too. They’re getting louder.”

Tilting his head, Harry listens. “Yeah, a little.” It doesn’t sound like there are any more of them, though, and they’ve lost the interest they seemed to gain in the building during Harry’s outburst. “It’s going to be ugly tomorrow morning,” he says, not moving yet. “Dangerous.”

“I know.” Draco looks at him with uncharacteristic patience — waiting for Harry, like he had on the desk, and maybe has been in other ways. 

“We’ll go in soon,” Harry says. They’ll have to; Draco is trying to hide it, but his teeth have already begun chattering a little because it’s November, and freezing even without the wind, and Draco isn’t wearing his fucking jacket. But Harry thinks they can spare a few more minutes. He points. “Look.”

Draco’s brow furrows. Lifting his face, he scans the sky; for a few seconds doesn’t seem to comprehend what Harry’s showing him, and it’s Harry’s turn to wait. But his own patience is rewarded with the little start of shock Draco gives when he sees the spiralling arc of the galaxy. His lips part and his face softens, his focus narrowing. 

“Merlin,” Draco breathes, staring up. “It seems like something I should have noticed before.” 

Harry’s heart skips, twice — a funny little hiccuped beat. He looks at the stars and says, “That’s exactly what I thought, too.”

* * *

There is no surprise in Granger’s face when she opens the door. Her eyes are bloodshot, and hollow with exhausted smudges the tender colour of a bruise, but the ice in them, Narcissa thinks with some approval, is worthy of a Malfoy.

“What do you want?”

“It may hurt my feelings if you don’t invite me in,” Narcissa says, and smiles. 

Granger’s expression hardens; she hesitates, scowls, and then, stepping back, allows Narcissa entrance into her domain. Narcissa takes the liberty of closing the door on her little spies, and glances around. Though she’s interacted with Muggles and a mix of their offspring on numerous occasions, she’s never before had the time or inclination to examine how they lived. Granger’s parlour is informal, nearly every surface cluttered with books and scrolls in a manner that gives the first impression of disorganisation. But upon Narcissa’s second sweep of the room, she can see how tidy Granger keeps it around the the madness, and the wealth of tasteful details in the decorative approach she’s taken — matching sofas populated with an overabundance of honey-coloured cushions, yet solid enough to last; a winding, copper clock on the mantlepiece surrounded by photographs in rose-gold frames; a secretary desk at least two hundred years old, by Narcissa’s eye, carved with intricate runes and inlaid with cloudy apricot crystals. 

She supposes Ronald Weasley could have inherited the odd gene from the Prewetts, who are born — in most cases — possessing a level of discernment above everyone in the Weasley line combined, but Narcissa’s observations of him over the years give her cause to doubt it. Which is… curious.

“I may not be allowed to do or say anything that might endanger your lives, but I’m not so naive to think your feelings enter into the Vow,” Granger says. The hem of her threadbare, navy dressing gown drags on the floor as she moves to one of the sofas, and Narcissa breathes through the uncomfortable memory of slipping into one of Lucius’ dressing gowns when she was a young bride, the first time he went away on business for the night. Granger doesn’t sit down. “This is about what Draco said. Does this have to be done now?”

“Well,” Narcissa says, tipping her head at the closed door, “while not particularly bright, the guards you set upon me may eventually be asked for more context about this morning’s conversation. Though Mr Potter’s reaction to the unfortunate news and your dramatic exit currently overwhelm finer details in their daily report, we must take what opportunities we are afforded, mustn’t we? ”

She strolls to the fireplace and lifts the single photograph that’s been tipped onto its face. Granger’s wedding day. She and Weasley are looking at each other, and the lower half of Granger’s cathedral veil loops around the small of Weasley’s back, to pull him closer. A backdrop of fairy lights lends a warm glow to their smiles, but there’s something awkward about their positioning — the pose is clearly staged, but their stillness looks unintentional. “Very pretty. This is magical, is it not? What happens next?”

“No,” Granger says, her eyes trained rather desperately on the far wall when Narcissa glances up. “ _No._ Get _out,_ if you’ve got nothing to say; I’m not going to humour you in this farce, no, if that’s why you’re here you can vacate my rooms immediately or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” Narcissa sighs and, setting the photograph upright amongst the others, considers the potential irony in alienating the girl further now that the threat of her has been effectively neutralised and she might be of use. She gentles her voice. “Come now, Hermione, do you really believe I would lower myself to come to your residence just to taunt you?”

“I think it makes you feel superior to think that you can.” Granger pulls the sash of her ill-fitting dressing gown tighter and clutches its gaping collar closed with one hand with such force that her knuckles turn white.

“Perhaps,” Narcissa says agreeably, though the suggestion that she might _not_ be superior is laughable. She nods to the tea service laid out on the small table between the sofas. A barely-perceptible steam rises from one of the two cups on the tray; the other still rests upside-down, likely included out of mere habit. “My apologies,” Narcissa says. “You are correct. We have things to discuss, you and I.”

Granger’s eyes flash to hers. She glances over one shoulder to the small corridor that probably leads to the family bedrooms, then gives a short, wary nod and woodenly lowers herself onto one of the sofas. 

“Yes. This is about my son," Narcissa says, and glances at the tea once more. "I’ll take care of my own additions." 

She turns back to the mantlepiece; though so openly displaying that which you find most precious has always seemed imprudent to her, she's never been so ridiculous to refuse studying the inner-workings of someone else's heart, when given the opportunity. Of the photographs remaining, there’s a family portrait taken sometime in the last year that includes Harry Potter, one of the nightmarish Weasley sprawl, two infant photos, and one with a teenaged Granger standing before two people so drab they can only be her parents. None of it unexpected, other than the last: A picture Narcissa’s surprised not to recognise of Granger, Weasley, and Potter as children — perhaps thirteen years old. The newspapers must not be aware of its existence. 

Draco at that age had already begun getting taller, had already lost the last bit of baby fat in his cheeks. By the time he came home on holiday, third year, so much about him had seemed different, she’d nearly called a Healer. Lucius, chuckling and pulling her close, had reassured her it was all normal for a growing young man of good stock — how Draco would retreat to his room, seemingly at random, and set up his own wards so she couldn’t get past them; how hungry he was all the time, smiling sheepishly at her whenever she discovered him in the kitchens, eating a second dinner after the first. 

“I suspect,” Narcissa says, looking at Potter’s young, smiling face, “that the results of the spell far exceed its intention.” She pauses, considering. “Although perhaps not. It was never easy to tell with him, in his last years.”

When she faces Granger again, Granger is sipping from her tea, her gaze watchful, and the extra cup has been turned over. Narcissa moves to take the seat opposite her. Her own tea has been appropriately strained, her cup filled to three-quarters, and not a drop has been spilled on her saucer. An admonishment for Narcissa’s assumption she’d make a mistake, perhaps — silent, but pointed. Amused, Narcissa grants her a small smile to concede as she begins adding the amount of milk and sugar she prefers, but Granger doesn’t respond with so much as a flicker of expression. 

“What do you know? And why come here to do it?”

“I did wait for you to come to me, after you ran from the Astronomy Tower — Rose is fine, of course? — but when a request for assistance isn’t forthcoming, it behoves one to be proactive.” Stirring her tea slowly, Narcissa adds, “You can only imagine my dismay upon summoning the Headmistress to find Minerva McGonagall at my door.”

“I was being proactive.”

Narcissa hides another smile. Granger’s resignation of post changes little, and it’s a rare pleasure to oppose someone who has both the perception to look five moves ahead and the willingness to sacrifice their queen if necessary. 

“And Rose?” 

Granger tries to disguise her pause by taking another measured sip of her tea. “Are you trying to pretend you would care if she wasn’t okay?”

“Why would I not?” Narcissa takes a sip of her tea and indulges in a spiteful wince, despite its perfectly lovely flavour. “Beyond the obvious reasons—”

“‘The obvious reasons’ being that you’d no longer be able to threaten her life to control me.”

“Of course. Beyond that,” Narcissa continues calmly, “I am not without eyes. Rose is a delightful child, and much to your credit. Think me heartless if you wish, but had I the desire to murder her, I would have simply done so. I should think you’d be flattered that I put as deep a faith in your love for your child as I have for mine.”

“Is this the part where you appeal to our few commonalities?” Grange exhales a small, scathing laugh and says, “Even pit vipers care for their young.” 

"Thank you, how charming," Narcissa says. "A bit artless as double entendres go, but a good turn of phrase nonetheless. What it fails to note is that most snakes do not, in fact, take care of their young. Commonalities?” Narcissa studies the stiff set of Granger’s shoulders, the hard line of her jaw. “I would never presume to appeal to traits so meaningless that even such opposite creatures as you and I share them. Nor do I need to appeal to you in any other regard. What I am trying to gauge is whether you can be practical enough in your self-interests that you might be of some help, or whether I’ll need to work around you.” 

Porcelain clatters softly as Granger sets her cup down on its saucer. “Rose is fine.”

“That’s very good to hear.” And Narcissa is telling nothing but the truth. Rose’s safety means that Draco is still fine after this morning’s debacle — which, considering the distraught way Granger flew from the room to check on her daughter, was not as guaranteed an assumption as Narcissa would prefer. Harry Potter is a disturbingly volatile escort for Draco; even Narcissa experienced a twinge of trepidation when he began to realise Weasley was dead. Putting her own tea aside, she says, “I trust you’ll give her my best.”

“I thought you were saving that for Draco.” 

“Mm. Yes. Well, then, tell Rose I said hello.” 

Closing her eyes briefly, Granger mutters a profanity under her breath and gives a tiny shake of her head. She meets Narcissa’s gaze evenly. “I’m beginning to think that what we’ve taken for cleverness in you is an actual inability to come straight to the point.”

“What happens in the photograph, Hermione?” Narcissa asks again, and huffs a small, genuine laugh when Granger narrows her eyes. 

“I… I kiss him,” she says eventually, through slightly gritted teeth. “Ron lifts me up and I kiss him. Why.”

“There were stories in the papers, when you were younger, that you and Mr Potter were romantically involved.”

“There were lies in the papers that Harry and I were involved,” Granger says. “In fact, your son could probably recite a few of them. It’s always been—” She stops, losing what little colour has come back to her face, but after a moment lifts her chin with a fortitude Narcissa cannot help but respect. Controlling the flow of her exhale, Granger says, “There was never anyone but Ron for me.”

“Yes,” Narcissa says with a nod. “And Lucius, for me.” She tuts at Granger’s blank look of disbelief. “You think happy marriages only exist for the pure of heart? That the depth of my loss could not possibly match or surpass yours?”

“From what I’ve heard, Lucius went mad in Azkaban. You’ve had years to accept your marriage is—” Her voice shakes a little, then firms. “—over, and even if that wasn’t true… No. I don’t think you feel love the way the rest of us do — no. There’s no comparison.”

“Then you’re remarkably narrow-minded for someone who has spent the majority of her life in this world proclaiming that we are all the same,” Narcissa says. She limits all expression of anger to a single, arched brow. “I claim no surprise, but you should more carefully inspect the viewpoints you find yourself most automatically inclined to dismiss. Lucius and I shared far more in our years together than most couples will ever dream.” 

Granger looks down, suddenly, to her left hand. Her ring set has a modest sort of flair — two slender, interlocking gold bands, each embedded with a row of tiny, winking rubies. Brow knitting, her gaze slowly moves to the polite clasp of Narcissa’s hands on her lap. Though far less modest, Narcissa’s rings are more classic in design, elegantly heavy with diamonds set in silver. Collecting herself, Narcissa extends her hand for Granger’s closer examination, satisfied when her fingers don’t dare to tremble.

“Lucius added the diamonds from the Malfoy vaults,” she says. “The bands are… older.”

“I told Minerva and the Unspeakables about what Draco said.” Granger says. Her gaze shifts over Narcissa’s shoulder, then returns. “About Inferi needing a master. They’re already researching it.”

“I would think them negligent if they were not.”

“What happened to Lucius?”

Narcissa swiftly conceals the small grimace that pulls her lips tight — though not before Granger has seen it, apparently, because her eyes linger on Narcissa’s face. She puts her hand back into her lap and asks, “Did you tell them about that part of the conversation, too?”

“If I had, would my daughter be alive right now?” Granger says. 

“Probably not.”

“Then you have your answer.”

“I would prefer to hear it,” Narcissa says. 

Granger gives a small, brittle laugh. “No. I didn’t.” 

“Good. I myself haven’t been able to determine what miscalculation I must have made that led Draco to ask,” Narcissa admits, “but discretion on the matter is paramount. I only wish Draco had been so circumspect; however, his relationship with his father has become increasingly, shall we say, strained over the last few years.”

Granger glances down the darkened corridor once more and, assured her children aren’t eavesdropping, turns back and lowers her voice. “You came here tonight to tell me something; okay, I’m listening. But the exposition is unnecessary, Narcissa. We aren’t two widows commisterating over a late-night tea.” 

As though she’s the person Narcissa would choose to confide in under any other circumstances. “We are _just_ that,” Narcissa says frigidly, “though not in the manner I suppose you mean. Do you imagine any of my commentary is irrelevant?” 

“Fine.” Granger’s stares at her, but she’s more alert than she has been since Narcissa arrived, at last paying attention. “Then explain why any of it matters.” 

“Individually, none of it does,” Narcissa says, and raises a hand when Granger opens her mouth. “They’re merely parts of a whole. Yet, spun together from the beginning, every detail is of consequence.”

Granger crosses her arms over her chest and gives Narcissa an abbreviated nod to proceed. Narcissa takes a breath and… falters. Granger narrows her eyes, but Narcissa’s hesitation is unexpected and entirely unfeigned. She drops both hands back into her lap and momentarily feels as lost as she had the afternoon Lucius appeared before her in her own study, his beautiful grey eyes bright for the first time in years. Too bright — fevered; aglow with terrifying purpose. That she might be forced to betray him in this manner had not been a consideration until today. Nor had she been prepared to feel as though it _is_ a betrayal, doing what she must to protect their son after both of his parents have damned him.

“Azkaban… Yes. It broke Lucius’ mind,” Narcissa says, when she can speak. “But I don’t believe it would have, had the process not already begun. The Dark Lord was perhaps the most powerful wizard in history, certainly one of the most brilliant, and a very long time ago it wasn’t difficult to believe him worthy of such an address.”

“Voldemort,” Granger says in a hard voice, “shattered his soul to pieces in search of power and everlasting life. I think if he’d been as brilliant as you claim, he might have let things alone, and enjoyed the natural longevity of a wizard’s life.” 

“Do you expect me to disagree? Pride has been the downfall of man since the beginning of time,” Narcissa says, disregarding that. “In one way or another. Some are sunk by their own hubris; others are sunk by attaching theirs to someone else’s. As was the case for Lucius, forced daily to live in a reality where the man to whom he had pledged himself had become twisted by his own madness.” 

Granger looks at her like one might examine a specimen under glass: interested, but sceptical. Removed. “You’re saying Lucius is the one who did all this. That he was driven so insane by Voldemort, he tried to… What? End the world to prove himself better? That’s what all of this has been about?”

“Of course not.” Narcissa closes her eyes. Behind them, she can see Lucius as clearly as the last time she saw him, can feel the warm cup of his hands holding her face. Can perfectly recall the moment she realised they were wet — that he was anointing her with the blood of his most recent caretaker as he pressed a final kiss to her mouth. “It was never about ending the world; it was never about proving himself _better_.”

“But he had a hand in it,” Granger says after a pause, and Narcissa opens her eyes. 

“Yes.” His hands, his _hands._ Smoothing down the line of her neck, the pads of his thumbs pressing under her jaw to tip her face up. And his voice, rich and warm: _Cissa, my jewel..._ The breadth of his chest rising under the blood-spattered shirt he wore, his heartbeat frantic against her palm as she failed, for the first time since in their long years together, to reach him the way only she ever could. “At the Dark Lord’s behest.”

Granger inhales sharply. “Do you— Are you saying Voldemort thought he might return as an Inferi? That he intended to _rule_ as one?”

“Of course not. But did you think someone willing to tear their soul apart would not have other contingency plans in place?” Naricissa asks, fitting a calm smile onto her face. She waits for the shock to bleed from Granger’s expression and, when it doesn’t, laughs softly and prompts, “I would take it as a personal courtesy if you refrained from being so unforgiveably stupid in my presence.”

“Then—” Granger blinks, gathering herself. She licks her lips. “Then he, Voldemort, he… wanted this.”

“Some of it, I believe,” Narcissa says. She grants Granger a few extra seconds to determine her meaning and sees the moment Granger understands — her face flushes dark; her teeth come together with a hard click. “An expedient way to clear the field if other methods aren’t working, don’t you think?” 

“Or exact revenge when they won’t at all,” Granger says in a savage tone.

“Or that.” Lifting one shoulder, Narcissa says, “Though I do think he meant Purebloods, and perhaps even half-bloods, to survive. Perhaps. Lucius—” She makes her voice steady. “—would have been allotted the power to enact on his behalf, but Blood Magics are not as adaptable as others; they require absolute precision.” 

Granger takes that in. “And you knew,” she says, and has the audacity to appear offended. “That he had plans in place. That Lucius did, with him.”

“Lord Voldemort,” Narcissa says succinctly, “had a lot of plans, for a lot of people. Are you implying I ought to have anticipated this after your Potter killed him? That I should have said ‘no, don’t release my nonsensically rambling husband into my care so that I might bring him a measure of comfort’? Or are you awaiting an apology regarding decisions I cannot force myself to regret making?” She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m truly sorry to be the person who explains that life will not always bend to your expectations; I believed you might have gathered that much on your own. However, I am here freely, gifting you with information you have been unsuccessful at soliciting from me. If I duly note your outrage, might we proceed to the part where you accept my help?”

“And Draco?” Granger asks in place of a true response, running a speculative gaze over her that makes Narcissa’s lips thin. “How does he fit into this? How could telling Minerva about Lucius possibly hurt you or your son?”

“Are you trying to pretend that you care?” Narcissa says, and brushes a nonexistent strand of hair from her cheek to cover the slight hitch in her lungs. She’d expected the question, but it serves well as a reminder to tread carefully. She runs over her prepared answer, drawing the moment out with a disappointed glance at the state of her tea; it’s gone completely cold. “Perhaps nothing,” she says, with just the right amount of disregard, turning back, “and perhaps everything. Draco is his father’s son, and will have inherited many vital properties from Lucius. That alone should be enough to indicate he’s in more extreme danger than you knew, considering—”

“—what Draco said,” Granger says slowly. Allowing the interruption without quibble, Narcissa relaxes into the sofa as Granger continues, “He said that he and Harry thought blood purity was a factor; that they had _reason_ to. The Inferi will have targeted him specifically.” Her eyes lock on Narcissa’s. “Will his arrival jeopardise everyone in Hogwarts?”

“That, I have no way of knowing.” Another wholehearted truth. “Whether or not it does, I am now sufficiently incentivised to work towards a solution with you, and believe you might have cause to feel the same.” Narcissa studies the recalcitrant shift of Granger’s jaw for a beat, and then smiles her Slytherin smile. “After all, your Mr Potter will be arriving at Draco’s side. Won’t he?”

* * *

Harry isn't sleeping when Draco wakes. Still bleary, Draco wonders if he did at all, and then hazily recalls Harry's head lolling on his shoulder in the middle of the night. In the time since, it seems their positions have somehow reversed and intensified: Draco’s hand is starfished protectively over Harry’s healing hip and his chest is flattened half-across Harry’s own; he’s practically nuzzling the smooth underside of Harry’s jaw with his nose. Draco pulls away a bit, only realising as he does that Harry didn’t do it first. Harry hardly seems aware of him at all, actually, casting a brief glance Draco’s way at the shift before lifting his eyes back to the ceiling. He looks like he’s working out a particularly complex Arithmancy solution, the suggestion of a frown grooved between eyebrows, his unfocused gaze jumping about without settling.

They haven't spoken much since returning to the room. Upon climbing in the window and seeing how Draco had spent the day in his absence — cleaning, as new an experience for Draco as any other, lately — Harry had issued another simple apology, submitted to his hand being sanitised and bandaged, and then sank into a silence that Draco took as an indicator of his needs. As uniquely qualified as Draco is to empathise with Harry's return to stewing, he’s hesitant to break that silence even now. He wants to respect it, but… they are on a timeline. 

"Are you all right?" Draco asks. He creates more distance between them. Removes his hand from Harry’s hip. 

Harry blinks, gaze dropping once more to Draco’s face; for a moment, his frown is less a suggestion than a statement of fact. Then his eyes clear and he checks his watch. “Yeah, I was just about to wake you. We need to leave soon.”

Draco looks at the clock with a vague sense of alarm. Though getting into position doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes — which he only grudgingly knows because Harry timed them doing six bloody runs the night they arrived — he’s surprised Harry didn’t wake him sooner. But then he notices that Harry’s already changed his shirt and jeans, that he already has his boots back on. The implications surrounding Harry’s lack of stubble push into his mind. He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, not sure how to interpret Harry getting ready and then… returning to their makeshift bed so that Draco could sleep longer. Keeping his voice light, he finally says, “It doesn’t take us that long to get there. Either you want us there early for some reason, or you’re,” he gestures abstractly to himself, “making yet another comment on my grooming habits.”

“The former,” Harry says, sitting up as well. He pauses to put on his glasses and tips Draco a small smile. “Though I still maintain anyone with Inferi chasing them ought to curtail their ‘grooming habits’ to under thirty—”

“ _Yes,_ thank you,” Draco snaps, and Harry’s smile grows a fraction. 

“Think you can do it in less than ten?”

Draco huffs, rising with a waspish flap of his hand for effect; he grabs his clothes and Harry’s wand before stalking into the loo. As of yesterday, Harry wasn’t willing, or perhaps able, to accept sympathy, so Draco was pleased to stumble across a set of tactics that seemed to work; needling Harry always has, to some extent. He uses the toilet — rank, yet endlessly preferable to pissing on the side of the road; having one has felt like such a luxury for the last three days, he almost wants to laugh — and then Harry’s wand to wash, mind caught on Harry’s smile as he dresses. Despite the peace Harry seemed to make with the circumstances last night, Draco finds it impressive that Harry can smile at all, though he supposes Harry’s always had the ability to put himself aside in favour of the bigger picture. His reputation is built on it. 

Draco is adept at masking his thoughts, but he’s _never_ been able to do what Harry does, not with the same level of commitment. He certainly can’t now, still overheated from waking up so close. Still wedged into his own bit of shock. Prone as he's ever been to obsessing over that which he can't control, the effort it’s taken all night to file away his feelings has been… extensive. A loop of repression whenever he and Harry touched, and when Harry said anything, and when Draco opened his eyes just before sleep to find Harry’s gaze resting on him, almost curiously. 

Exiting the loo, Draco says, “We’ll still have plenty of time to—” and pulls to a hard stop. Harry looks at Draco from the desk, where he’s stuffing his jacket pockets with four small devices Draco doesn’t recognise which seem to have been pieced together with tangles of electrical cordage Draco binned, pieces of the broken mobile, and loose batteries from their bags. Harry plucks up the little flip-blade dagger, finds room for it in the back pocket of his jeans, and then turns to Draco. His expression makes Draco feel the way he does whenever he inevitably forgets the twice-yearly deep clean he’s signed up for with his service, and returns home to find every familiar piece of furniture reflectively polished, and all of it subtly rearranged. Wariness flutters through him; the last time Harry had that look on his face, he was telling Draco they needed to jump from one balcony to another, four flights up.

“Yeah,” Harry says, glancing at the clock. Little creases around his mouth appear, the glimmer of a smirk. “Sixteen minutes is progress, I suppose. I wagered you’d be in there for twenty.”

“What’s going on?”

“Thought of something.” Harry says, turning brusque. Passing Draco a protein bar, he snorts softly when Draco pulls a face, and then produces a chocolate bar from Merlin knows where; Draco’s been under the impression they’d eaten everything good. “A complication, a bad one. We can probably fix it.”

“Have you been hiding these?” Draco demands as he tears the wrapping open, irritation and delight warring in him before the rest of Harry’s statement penetrates. “How bad?” he asks. Then: “Probably?”

“Well, maybe. And how bad does something have to be to qualify separately from everything else that’s happening?” 

Draco pauses. “Tell me."

Ruefully, Harry says, "We’re not going to be able to make it to the tunnels in under a minute. I’m— I should have thought of that; I assumed I’d be able to prepare, logistically, after I got another chance to talk to Hermione and we had more details on how the spell from Hogwarts would help us get through, but…” He shakes his head, and Draco frowns.

“So what can we do?”

“I’ve already started, actually,” Harry says, sending a dispassionate glance around the office — the one arguable bit of safety they’ve claimed for the last few nights. He picks up their blanket, starts folding it. “Eat. I’ll explain the rest as we pack.”

* * *

Early morning has a faintly threatening quality to it. The air is bitingly cold, and the reckless blue of the predawn hour covers everything with a sinister tint: the rooftop, the car park below, and the visible Inferi lingering there who howl pitiably, their energies not yet disconcerted by the light of the day. Even Harry’s hair seems to soak in the colour, and Draco tries not to look at it as he follows Harry over the roof of their building to the one attached, training his eyes instead on Harry’s boots and matching him stride for stride.

They climb four levels down with the rungs built into the brick wall of their building to the second rooftop, where Harry pauses to pull the blade and three of the incendiary devices from his pocket. He spends a few minutes meticulously puncturing something on each of them, then props them carefully in a row on the ledge and guides Draco along with a silent jerk of his chin. Though the middle is the longest of all three structures, it still takes them no time to span its length, and then they have to slow to redistribute and secure the casual lean of their bags on their shoulders; the third building is a little harder to access, attached only by narrow steel girders that shudder under their weight with each step they take. Gracefully agile in a way Draco should probably stop letting himself be surprised by, Harry accomplishes it more quickly than he did during their practice runs, and extends a hand to help steady Draco over his last few precarious steps. He exhales a long breath when Draco’s back on solid ground — or what passes for it. 

His grip is trembling. Draco twists a glance over his shoulder; the bolts holding the beams in place don’t seem to have loosened any further. Bewildered, he looks back to Harry, whose expression is unreadable.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I—” Harry takes another breath. He shakes his head, a wan smile crossing his face. “Yeah.” He loosens the curl of the warm, gloved fingers biting too hard into Draco’s wrist, and guides him to the lip of the building, silent for a minute as Draco studies their route.

“How long until the spell?”

“We should start soon — if we’re going to,” Harry says.

It’s a rather tacit way of giving Draco the option to say he wants to find another way across the Channel. Of letting him decline the risk. And it _is_ a risk, there’s no question about that. The issue is one of distance; though little obstructs their path from the building to the doors of the service tunnels, they’re farther away than he and Harry can conceivably run in the time they’ve been allotted. Adding that to the amount of time it will take them to lower and descend the fire escape ladder, minus the seconds it takes the Inferi closest to the entrance to recover, and their probability of survival slips to a percentage so miniscule they might as well spend the time writing their own obituaries than try.

Draco turns and meets Harry’s eyes. “Go on, then.”

“How’s your aim?”

Ignoring the knot of apprehension growing in his throat, Draco picks out one of the few vehicles still in the car park, bigger than the others and only about a sixty metres away — around a tenth of the distance to the tunnels. A pausing point, if nothing else, from which Granger’s spell might actually give them a chance.

“The lorry?” Harry asks, nibbling on his lip and then giving a definitive nod when Draco shrugs. “Yeah, alright. Go as soon as you feel like you can; remember not to access any of my magic you might feel.” He starts to step away — but comes to an abrupt stop. Pivoting, he moves close; his breath smells of chocolate and, more faintly, toothpaste. “Draco.”

Draco endures a rocky shift from his own nervous concentration to the violent churn of something between them that has nothing to do with magic. He shakes his head a little, pushing it down even as Harry steps nearer and invades his space, but his hand rises of its own accord; Harry palms the back of his neck and Draco clutches at his belt, his fingers sliding just into the waist of his jeans. 

“You— You matter to me,” Harry says, voice dropped low and fervent. “More than I— You _matter_ ,” he says, and closes his eyes, and pulls Draco in.

For a single, fragmented moment, Draco is so stunned, all he can do is consider the kiss as if from a distance: the urgent pressure of Harry’s lips slanted against his own, the clever, teasing hint of his tongue, the way he tastes. And then Draco stops thinking at all.

With death all around them, shaken and shaking, he jerks Harry harder against him and kisses Harry back. Harry’s lips part and Draco presses his tongue in; he swallows the soft, heated sound Harry makes in response, filled with the wild desire to stay where they are atop the roof, until it’s too late to face the danger they’re about to. Filled with too many ideas of the things they could do instead. Then the hand at Draco’s nape tightens, and two leather-encased fingertips touch his jaw with baffling care, and the air finally pushes its way from his lungs as Harry breaks away.

Draco stares into Harry’s wide, green gaze and licks the slick of Harry’s kiss from his lips. Those tiny creases appear around the corners of Harry’s mouth — and eyes, too; a smile this time, not a smirk — and Draco gathers his wits about him.

Freeing Harry’s jeans and belt from his fist, he nudges Harry back. More than a few seconds can’t have passed, but timing will be important. Harry nods and this time when he turns, he keeps going, jogging to the other side of the roof as he removes the remaining devices from his jacket. Draco watches until he reaches the girders, before looking away, still breathless but oddly composed. Inferi are so tightly clumped around the service tunnel, they look like a single, writhing mass; their numbers are so great, the ones on the outskirts edge into the perimeter of the hardstand. Otherwise, it’s mostly vacant of them, drawn as some of the Inferi have been over to where they could sense magic, and there’s a not-insignificant crowd of them grouped just below. Draco waits.

The first explosion sweeps through Draco’s veins like a Summoning charm, and lights up the warming sky at his back; he guards himself against the energetic lure of the first sensation but can’t stop himself from making sure Harry’s still on his feet. Harry is, stance firm and shoulders set, the air around him filled with fluttering glow-white particles of the magic he used to detonate the first device, pitched as far as Harry could manage. The Inferi on the ground barely seem to notice the sound, but as the discernable glow of Harry’s magic fades into the atmosphere, there’s a sharpening of awareness, and they begin moving away from their position below where Draco stands. He reins in his impatience until Harry’s knocked off and detonated the second device from where the ledge where it was stationed and the Inferi are spilling fast around the corner in search of something to devour, and then he aims Harry’s wand at the vehicle, marshals every scrap of suppressed magic inside himself, and casts the strongest combined general Initiation and Propulsion spells he can muster. The third blast behind him and subsequent glow make it impossible to tell if the vehicle really shifted or if the magic has been eaten by the atmosphere, but Draco casts another spell at it just in case, forcing his magic out of Harry’s wand, and then slams it with every version of Alohomora they’d never dare teach at Hogwarts; he puts Harry’s wand away and starts lowering the fire ladder. 

The fourth and fifth detonations come as the long-unused ladder locks up around the second floor. They’re the furthest away, where Harry left them on the ledge, so the muted effect of them makes sense but their discharge _feel_ weaker to Draco — inside. He gives up trying to force the ladder into submission and turns just in time for Harry’s approach. Harry’s complexion is pasty, his forehead damp.

“Can you make it?” Draco asks. Harry nods wordlessly and Draco gestures over the side. “We’ll have to jump partway.”

“I can make it,” Harry says. “Hurry.”

Draco goes first, one eye on Harry above him even as he scans the ground below. Harry’s coordination is clumsy at first, but by the time they reach the fourth floor he’s steadied, and Draco’s able to pick up the pace. Running out of rungs for his feet requires some awkward use of upper body strength but he manages it, lowering himself one rung at a time until he’s dangling from the last, about the length of his own height between himself and the ground. The drop is bone-jarring but painless. There’s a wheeled bin a few feet away that would probably make Harry’s drop a little easier; Draco attempts to get it rolling with a hard lean against one side as Harry suddenly freezes, three rungs from the bottom. 

“Draco,” he whispers tightly, just before Draco feels the Inferi staggering closer — two, perhaps three, approaching the corner and gaining speed. 

Draco’s lungs stall; he can’t breathe with them so near, their very proximity oozing through him like a sickness and tangling through his mind like a sticky web. He’s— protected, partway, half-hidden on the other side of the bin, and there are no obstacles between him and the vehicle. The machete is sheathed against Harry’s hip; he’s trembling with the strain it takes to stay still, and entirely exposed despite the effort. Legs hanging within reach of an average adult, if one had enough reason to make the attempt. 

“Draco,” Harry whispers again, and Draco swallows the acrid burn in his throat as two Inferi start rounding the far corner, time slowing to incremental shreds. Harry scrambles to reach the rung above, misses and kicks at the air, swinging hard and trying to regain his balance. He raises his voice, “Draco, you can make it—.”

He can. 

“—get to the lorry—”

He could. 

“—the spell—”

But he suddenly has context for something, thirty minutes ago, he was sure he would never understand: Harry doesn’t have to uncouple his own needs from the equation; he’s never had to, whether he realises it or not. All he’s ever had to do was apply what he finds most important to the bigger picture, and work from there. 

The Inferi, running now, swerve away from Harry and towards him when he steps out from behind the bin. Draco hears Harry shout something at him, but there’s no use for protest anymore so he detaches himself from it. From everything else. His wand sends a shock of pleasure through his palm and up his forearm. He watches himself swing, and doesn’t drop his shoulder. 

After it’s over, Draco looks at what he’s done for a beat that feels like it lasts for days; neither of them turn into his oldest, sometimes only, friend. He kneels down, using the t-shirt covering a headless corpse to wipe coagulated blood from the blade of his wand, and when he rises, Harry is at his side.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, eyes huge.

Draco glances at him. “Probably best we hold off on that.”

Harry gurgles a strangled laugh but Draco has no time to smile back because they’re already off, streaking through the car park as fast as their legs will carry them. They tumble over each other into the vehicle, new Inferi hard on their tail, and manage to get the door shut behind them. 

“Did I do it?” Draco asks, fighting with Harry to untangle from him. Harry shoves himself into the driving seat and toys with the controls. He laughs again, loud with disbelief, as the cab vibrates and begins lurching forward sluggishly. 

Harry shifts his weight forward. The vehicle sputters, smooths out for a slow but steady stretch, and sputters again. They thump over an Inferi charging at them, knock aside another, slow further, and finally come to a grinding stop. They’ve crossed perhaps a third of the way. 

“How long?” Draco asks numbly, eyeing the Inferi crowding around them. 

Voice tense Harry says, “Any second.”

Something hits Draco’s door. Harry’s hand falls to Draco’s forearm, pulls him a bit closer. Hairline cracks appear in Draco’s window as it finally yields to the pressure of grasping hands, and they both pull their weapons, but then a _whoosh_ of ignited magic fills the air between them. It concentrates around Harry and then departs with such velocity, it shatters the windshield. The Inferi trying to climb their way inside are thrown through the air, a sea of the dead parting to clear the way. Harry drags Draco out after him before they’ve even hit the ground.

The flimsy gating around the entrance to the service tunnel has long-since been destroyed, and their path is unhindered. They run for it, the cold salt tinge of ocean air flowing clean through Draco’s lungs, Harry matching his longer strides with what has to be sheer determination. Draco’s focus narrows: he sees movement in his periphery and ignores it; he twists his ankle crossing railway tracks and adjusts the cadence of his step to accommodate; and when he feels Harry plundering their link open, Draco doesn’t question it: He yanks Harry’s wand from his jacket and points it at the tightly-closed set of doors looming before them. They burst open, releasing a billow of magic that washes over Draco’s senses, a wave of heat so powerful he nearly stumbles as he and Harry barrel into the depths of the unlit tunnel, the link slamming closed between them, the doors slamming shut, behind. 

Wheezing, Draco shrugs his bag off and bends at the waist to catch his breath, his body reacclimating itself to the tingle of magic — for some reason tucked away, here, and undefiled. He lets it skitter over his skin and feels it petalling out from inside him, habitat and personal biology in perfect symmetry for the first time in weeks. He straightens, slowly, at Harry’s hand on his shoulder. Passes Harry’s wand over without being asked.

The slender shafts of light coming in from between and around the doors steadily vanish under the golden scarlet of the spell Harry uses to solder the doors together; he drops his arm, and they stand in silence, watching, as the spell continues without undue force, graceful sparks of magic coaxing along the bright flares of melting metals. 

Then Harry says Draco's name like a question, and Draco swallows and says " _Yes_ " without thought, and they turn to meet in the middle as shadows, dense as a newly-formed star, close all around them.

**Author's Note:**

> AN 4, 07/06/2020: _No_ , this fic _hasn't_ been abandoned, I promise!!! Lol. I am, however, incredibly sorry for the delay. Staying so immersed in writing anything for so long can occasionally make me feel like my writing is suffering -- or at least, my desire to write. I could feel that beginning so happen and needed a small break, which has helped. I'll be wrapping up the fics I've been working on in the interim over next week or so, at which time I'll finish and post the next chapter. :) But I wanted to let everyone know that I'm fully commited and still at it, and take a second to thank everyone who's been so patient and encouraging. You guys are the best. ❤
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely. Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now, too! *waves*


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